I was taken hostage last week.
Not in a cool, bank heist way. No one kicked in a door , shooting a cool gun in the air, saying “Get down on your ground and no one gets hurt”-where I am already coming up with a plan like I am Liam Neeson. No cool getaway driver named Ace who only speaks in cryptic metaphors about being a wheelman.
No. I was getting a dental cleaning.
And when I say “getting a dental cleaning,” I mean my mouth was pried open like a car hood at a trailer park. There’s a vacuum tube suctioning my spit like it had dreams of being a Dyson, and a metal scraper making a sound akin to where the fork scratches the plate and makes that horrible sound. I’m reclined at an angle and my back is already starting to hurt. (Does that sentence prove I am over 40?) Worst of all- a stranger has her fingers in my mouth.
I’ve got this shoulder injury from my Marine Corps days. I’m 99% sure a decent hot oil massage from a professional would fix it. Like, actual relief. Melt-my-soul, reset-my-posture, weep-quietly-kind-of-relief.
But I’ve never done it.
Why?
Because I don’t like strangers touching me.
Not in the “I’m emotionally unavailable because my dad never hugged me way-more like the “If you’re not wearing scrubs or a wedding ring I gave you, keep your mitts to yourself” kind of way.
I spent most of my life in wrestling, MMA, and the Marines, so when a stranger tried to touch me, it was usually followed by a punch, a headlock, or someone yelling “He’s got a knife!”
So no, while a massage sounds greats, I want to keep my tension right where it is: bottled up inside- that’s healthy, right? You want to help me relax? Back up six feet and talk to me through a walkie-talkie.
So, a total stranger is sticking her gloved fingers and metal tools into my mouth like she’s disarming a bomb in there. I’m already cringing, but hey, sometimes life says “Be an adult”- and we do the necessary, right?
Now normally, my hygienist Pam handles this. Pam and I-we’ve got a thing. A History. A sacred bond forged in fluoride and silence. She hums softly, cleans efficiently, and never says a word unless it’s necessary. I respect that. Five stars. Would highly recommend.
But today? No Pam. Instead, I get Chatty Cathy, who looks like she got her dental license out of a cereal box and double-tapped her way through dental school on TikTok. I’ve been in the chair four seconds and already know she is gluten-free, her boyfriend’s a DJ-slash-real-estate-agent, and that she spent the weekend drunk axe-throwing.
She talks faster than a Gilmore Girl. I came in for a cleaning, not a podcast episode.
I’m already hating life and bracing myself for what’s next when she says the most horrifying thing you can hear when you’re trapped with a mouth full of metal:
“Tina [the office manager] said you’re a writer. I have the best story idea.”
Jesus, take the drill.
She starts in: “It’s kind of a Civil War vampire love triangle.”
I don’t have the ability with my mouth full of tools and water shooting in it to say, “Please stop.”
Because here’s the thing: everybody has a book in them. That’s what they say. But the way they say it, it sounds like a tumor. Like, “Oh I’ve got a book in me!” Cool. You should get that looked at.
Everyone tells me. Every. Single. Time.
“Oh! I’ve got the craziest story! I should write a book!”
Yeah, sure. You should also start working out five days a week, throw out all the useless junk in your house, and drink more water.
But let’s be honest-you won’t.
And that’s okay. You’re not alone. Writing a book is the literary equivalent of saying, “This weekend, I’m finally cleaning the garage.”
Everyone says it.
No one does it.
We just stare at the mess, sigh loudly, and go make a snack.
Honestly, I wish I had transition lenses that instantly went pitch black every time someone said, “So I’ve been thinking of this story idea…”
Boom-full eclipse.
Sunglasses indoors.
Soul exits my body and goes straight to Red Lobster without me. (Yum. Cheddar Biscuits. Worth it.)
Now look, not everyone needs to keep their story to themselves. Just the boring people.
If you’re fascinating? I’m in. Let’s go. I’ll buy you coffee. I’ll buy you lunch. I’ll lean in and actually listen.
I love creative people. I love hyping up writers.
I recently edited a book so insanely good, I hit chapter three and thought, “Well. Time to fake my death and delete my author bio.” It wasn’t even in my usual genre-but great storytelling punches through all that. This woman could write. Like, rearrange-your-soul-on-a-cellular-level write.
Because here’s the deal:
Storytelling is an art. And not everyone is an artist. That’s okay.
I’ll never be a great mechanic like half my friends. I want to be the kind of person who hears a weird engine noise in the car I restored (I signed the checks to my friend who did so I am claiming it as “I restored it”) and confidently says, “Oh yeah, that’s a cylinder misfire.”
Instead, I just turn up the radio, put a piece of black tape over the check engine light and call one of them in a panic.
But if you start with, “It’s a children’s book about a gluten-free horse that solves mysteries…”
BOOM. My glasses go full blackout like a welding mask. I leave my body and float above the room like a disappointed Victorian ghost.
Here’s the real talk:
Writing a book is hard. Talking about writing a book is easy.
That’s why everyone does the second one and almost nobody finishes the first.
Saying, “I have an idea!” doesn’t make you a writer. It makes you alive.
A dog has an idea when it sees a squirrel. Doesn’t mean it’s writing a novel.
Ideas are free. Execution costs blood, sleep, and your will to live.
But if you’re serious-like, really serious-about writing your book?
So you wanna write a book?
Adorable.
Let Me Ruin Your Day and Help You Live Your Dream
Because both can be true.
So if you’re really serious about writing a book-like, “I’m ready to cry, question my existence, and get hand cramps at 2AM from typing too much” serious-then here are six truths you need to know:
1. Write Every. Damn. Day.
Not talk about writing. Not “light a candle and write ‘Chapter One’ in cursive in your emotional support journal.”
I mean write actual words for the actual book. Daily. Even if they suck. Especially if they suck.
EVERY great book starts as hot, disorganized trash. Plot holes. Cardboard characters. Dialogue that sounds like a middle school play written during lunch detention.
The difference between you and that author you worship?
Their garbage wore a tuxedo by the time it hit shelves. Yours is still in pajama pants, watching reruns and waiting for “inspiration.”
Spoiler alert:
Inspiration is a lazy bastard. Show up without it.
And don’t give me “writer’s block.”
Can nurses call out with nursing block? Can a mechanic be like, “Sorry, I just don’t feel connected to the carburetor today.”
Nope.
Do the job in front of you.
2. You’re Not Gonna Get Rich
Let’s just gently fold that dream into a paper airplane and launch it straight into a bonfire.
72% of all book revenue goes to the same 100 authors.
Your deeply personal, genre-bending masterpiece is competing with James Patterson’s typing army and Colleen Hoover’s raw emotional damage.
So don’t write for money.
Write because you have to.
Or because your therapist said it’s “a healthy outlet.”
Or for revenge-because honestly, nothing fuels great storytelling like spite.
Bonus: makes for a killer acknowledgments page.
3. Editing Sucks. You Still Have to Do It.
Editing is like wearing pants to Target. You don’t want to, but society insists.
And no, running spellcheck is not editing. Here’s what you’re actually signing up for:
- Developmental Editing – “Cool idea. Let’s delete most of it and pretend this is a do-over.”
- Line Editing – “Let’s make these sentences sound like someone with a pulse wrote them.”
- Copy Editing – “You used ‘your’ instead of ‘you’re’ again and I’m calling the cops.”
- Proofreading – “Your main character was named Jason… until page 74, where he’s suddenly Kyle?”
- Timeline Check – “Your hero is in Paris and having brunch in New Jersey… simultaneously. Are we doing teleportation or cocaine?”
4. Formatting Will Break You
You thought writing the book was the hard part? LOL. That was the foreplay. Now comes formatting-AKA the part where your will to live is slowly replaced by rage and font rage.
You can pitch to agents and traditional publishers or go the self-pub route. If you self-publish, you’ll need versions for:
- Amazon Kindle/Paperback – because everyone shops there, even your aunt who still writes checks
- IngramSpark – for indie bookstores, because Amazon and mom-and-pop shops fight like divorced parents at a soccer game
- Barnes & Noble – the home of hopeful book signings and $9 lattes
- Audiobook – because if you don’t record it, someone with an accent will and confuse your readers
- Hardcover – for your ego
Each of these has its own rules, margins, file types, and something called bleed margins, which sound like a medical emergency and basically are.
By the end of it, you’ll either be an Adobe InDesign wizard or a person who converts to the Amish lifestyle and eschews all technology.
5. Hire a Ghostwriter If You’re More “Ideas & Vibes” Than “Typing & Crying”
Want to tell your story but the thought of writing makes your skin itch? Hire a ghostwriter.
They’re magical caffeine gremlins who take your chaos and turn it into chapters.
It’ll cost you $5,000–$10,000 and take 3–5 months. Longer if your “story” is just vibes and childhood trauma. Shorter if you trust them and stop texting them 47 times a day.
(Yes, I ghostwrite. But only if I like you, your story, and you don’t say the phrase “It’s like Eat Pray Love… but with aliens.”)
Please read their writing samples first.
Otherwise, you’ll end up with a dark dystopian vampire erotica when you were going for a heartwarming pet memoir. (Unless that’s your vibe. No judgment.)
6. You’ll Absolutely Want to Quit. Weekly. Maybe Daily.
Somewhere between Chapter 5 and “Why did I think I could do this,” you’ll fantasize about abandoning the whole thing and becoming a beekeeper. You’ll envy raccoons for their simple, obligation-free lives. You’ll consider deleting the entire file, the cloud, and your own identity. That’s normal. Push through anyway. You’re not a real writer if you haven’t questioned this entire decision to do so and you wish you never have to look at the taunting screen of your document again.
Writing a book is like running a barefoot marathon, uphill, in a hailstorm-while everyone around you asks, “When’s it coming out?”
But if you finish?
If you actually get that beast across the finish line?
You’ll have done one of the most badass, soul-cleansing, legacy-leaving things on this planet.
So go write the damn thing.
And when you do? I’ll be there-pen in hand, book held out, asking you to sign it.
I am rooting for you,
– Rob Urban