I started writing a book 2 years ago.

It was a memoir written real time like the film “Boyhood”. 

I took all of my writing from the day I detoxed off of heroin and arranged it chronologically. Then, I removed a shitload of stuff and narrated the story between each passage.

A year and a half in, I realized:

I had just written one long ass journal entry.

I ended the “book” earlier this year. I wrote the last passage and closed the document.

It was the best/worst day of my life.

I realized that I had completed something important, but its only purpose was to teach me something.

It helped me through a rough romantic rejection.

It allowed me to express myself while I felt intrinsically alone; isolated from the world around me.

The book gave me a challenge. It led me to knowledge as I figured out way to live between the pages.

It taught me how to show up at a keyboard and write everyday.

Working on the book gave me purpose as I slogged through months of heartache.

Finishing it allowed me to finally disconnect from an “idea” of who I was and what I was meant to do.

The act of writing was the point. The only way I could learn how to be a “writer” was to write.

So I wrote one long ass journal entry in an attempt to capture something real.

And now, I confront each page like it will be the last.

—

Writing isn’t about making “excuses” or explaining “why”.

It’s about understanding fear and publishing anyways.

Earlier this week, I stood in front of 300 entrepreneurs, software engineers, and designers at a tech conference to pitch myself for 30 seconds.

I planned to talk about the app I’ve been developing, humanistic psychology, and the vision for U.I. Minds Eye.

I didn’t share about any of that.

They called me to the stage, handed me a microphone, and allowed me to speak.

I smiled at the audience.

“Hey guys, I’m really glad to be here…this is my first time participating in an event like this and I’m really excited…

I scanned the audience and my voice froze. Everyone stared. I didn’t know what to do, so I continued smiling.

My eyes caught the clock and I saw that 8 seconds had passed.

“Wow…I’m really wasting a lot of time standing here smiling at you guys…”

No response from the audience.

“I feel like I should be moving…”

I walked across the stage and went into my pitch:

I spoke about working at a mental health hospital. I shared about the things I’m interested in: psychology, philosophy, and human growth/development.

I went on a quick riff about being frustrated with social media.

I told the crowd that I would be happy to chat about what I was working on and then…

I dropped the mic.

Literally.

It fell.

A heavy echo crackled throughout the auditorium and I bent over to pick it up.

As soon as I managed to grip the microphone, a loud air horn punched the airwaves.

My 30 seconds were up.

I handed the microphone to the master of ceremonies and donkey trotted off of the stage.

Yeah.

To be honest, I don’t know what a donkey trot is, but that’s what I did.

I galloped offstage into a sea of people bobbing my head like an ass. (“Ass” as in “Donkey”).

And, I can’t wait to do it again.

—

I was nervous right before I spoke.

Moments before I got on stage, I realized that whatever I’m supposed to say, will get said.

I calmed myself by recognizing the fact that nobody gives a shit.

Everybody is just doing the best they can and people are only paying attention to stuff that might interest them.

I decided, in that moment, to just be myself.

To give the group a chance to get to know “me”.

I may not have pitched the perfect product, or expressed myself like a master of public speaking, but I did it.

I embraced fear and stepped into the unknown.

I feel alive, I feel challenged, and I can’t wait to do it again.

Cause nobody really gives a shit.

And Tony Robbins would be proud.