Everything I Thought

What If You Became Bigger Than What You Dreamed Of?

I spent years waiting for a title to hit me. Something bold but relatable. Something that could hold true from my first book, a young, naive boy who didn’t know anything, all the way to my last one, an old man with frail, wrinkly hands full of stories and wisdom. When it finally hit me, it made sense.

Everything I Thought.

A title to hold all my books. All the things I thought, some true, a lot not. A collection of thoughts that consume my mind and fill the pages of these journals.

I’m only on book 33 today. And I’m about to turn 32! I plan to have enough to fill an entire library one day.

At this point, writing is all I want to do. I’m consumed by the questions in my head and the questions within this world. I don’t claim to know more than anyone else. I’m just the one who writes it all down.

I turned down publishers. Rejected editors. Put aside marketing agencies. I knew I had been writing something special. Something that hasn’t really been done before. The revelations and clarity writing continues to give me, it wouldn’t be right to hand that to someone else. Truth, authenticity, rawness, mistakes, and lessons. That’s how I’m growing. So it only made sense to keep it that way.

Like a lot of people, I struggle to understand the world we live in. A society that feels misdirected. A world that constantly feels on the edge. A flood of ideas, conversations, and consumerism that feels completely disingenuous. Influencers promoting things for dollars, not passion. I feel the brokenness of it. It keeps me up at night.

So I write.

I’m starting to realize it doesn’t make sense trying to figure it all out. But what helps me sleep, the odd time I do fall asleep, is knowing I have a purpose. That I’m doing my best to restore something that has been lost for a while.

Through this process I’ve become a great listener. Learning from people of all walks of life. The billionaires I’ve lived with. The homeless souls on a bench who just want to connect. I learn in between it all. I ask the questions and I have the gift of writing them down, using words to make sense of what I find.

It’s probably why the words don’t feel like mine. The story does. But the words don’t. That’s why I write as an anonymous author.

The credit was never mine to collect.

So, with that, to start off with a question that has been my driver since I was a kid:

“What if you became bigger than what you dreamed of.”

— Neb