I always wanted to be a writer. When I was a little boy, I found a list of faraway addresses where I could send my poems and maybe have them published. So I stole a stamp and sent my words off to strange cities. I was hoping someone would discover my secret heart.

Then one day a letter came back, and my mother opened it.

Dear Scott,

Thank you for allowing us to consider these poems, but we are unable to publish your submission at this time.

My mother asked what I’d been doing, and I broke down and finally admitted it. I cried like I was confessing to some awful crime, “I’ve been writing poetry, Mother.” But as soon as I said it, I could see that my mom was mad. She scolded me, “Scott, you shouldn’t be writing to these people. We don’t know them.” She told me they could be criminals, drugs users, sex maniacs, con-men, or bipolar lunatics.

I shook my head because I knew my mom was so wrong.

She didn’t know shit about the writing world.

I met Giancarlo on the internet.

For some reason, that spring, I drove nine hours to do a reading in Atlanta, but when I got there, nobody had showed up.

“Fuck,” I said and checked the front door of the dark museum, and realized it was locked.

I shouted, “Scott, you drove nine hours for nothing.”

I checked my printed-off MapQuest directions because I didn’t have a phone yet. The address was right, and the time was right, but nobody was there. So I sat on the sidewalk in my silly suit and almost started to sob. I felt so stupid, trying to write. I was just about ready to leave when four people walked up.