A little more than a decade ago, the favorable reviews and sales of the book I wrote about a childhood friend who went on to forever change the face of rock and roll music catapulted me into a career field I had longed to join since I was a young child stealing Stephen King novels from a moldy box in a sweaty trailer park Laundromat in Aberdeen, Washington.
That career field then took me to the heights (depths?) of Celebrity Hollywood to twice walk red carpets with mortals elevated to status of “star” by millions of those who are by all means their all-around equals and in many, many ways their superiors.
I have been on TV shows and documentaries. I owned a music public relations firm, the clients of which went on to win Grammys. I founded a nonprofit organization that received international attention. And my work has been an answer to a Jeopardy! question. Twice, that I know of.
I won the NAACP’s top award and was nominated for it one other time, finishing in the Top 5 but ultimately losing to Condoleezza Rice. I won the top award from the Society of Professional Journalists, too. I have written more than thirty books.
Yet rarely have I taken time to reflect on my accomplishments. That is because where I always have been the happiest in life is when I am in the place I am now as I write this: alone in front of a computer screen or with paper and pen. I see words as a composer might see a set of instruments — as tools to be manipulated to achieve a harmonious end.