I was bullied by a bunch of middle-aged pencil pushers. And it hurt.

About eight years ago, I was in search of a writer's group. I had just sold my first novel and was hoping to find some colleagues of sorts to meet with and share my struggles and seek solutions. I was new to the writing business and had many questions.  

Also, writing can be a lonely business. I was hoping to find some friends. 

While wandering through the local library one day, I notice a flyer for a local fiction writers group that was looking for new members. I'm thrilled. Exactly what I was looking for. I had sent my request into the ether, and the universe had responded. 

Huzzah! 

On a cold, winter night, I trudge through snow and ice over to the library, where I find about a dozen people meeting around a table on the upper floor of a local library.

I couldn’t believe it. Writers excited about their craft, gathering on a weeknight, notebooks piled around a large, oval table, presumably filled with brilliant ideas, finely crafted sentences, and unexpected word choices.

I thought I had found heaven.

The meeting begins with a gentleman at the head of table welcoming the writers. As far as I can tell, he's just another writer, somehow acknowledged as our moderator and leader. Everyone seems to know one another, laughing and chit chatting like old friends. I appear to be the only new face this evening.

Presumed head honcho explains that we will begin with introductions. "Please tell us who you are, what kind of writing that you do, and any recent success that you’ve had with publishing." 

People around the table tell us their names, a little bit about their current manuscripts, and news about contests entered, contests found, and in one case, a contest won. Flash fiction. A prize of $10 plus the story will appear on the contest sponsor’s website next month.

Light applause.

Then it’s my turn. Less than six months ago, I sold my first novel to Doubleday, but not wanting to grandstand, I try to downplay my accomplishment.

“I’m a novelist, though I write some poetry and non-fiction too.”

“Any publishing credits?” someone asks.

“Sure. A few op-ed pieces and a couple articles in some educational journals. I’m a teacher.”

“Anything else?” head honcho inquires.

“Well, I sold my first novel a couple months ago, but it won’t be out for more than a year.”

At news of this, everyone sits up. The questions come fast.

"Who bought the novel?"
"How much was the sale price?"
"Hardcover or paperback?"
"Is it a multi-book deal?"
"What was your advance?"
"How did you find a publisher?"
"Do you have a co-author?"
"How old are you?"

I answer as many questions as I can, declining to talk finances but explaining the process by which I found an agent and eventually sold the book. As the group asks clarifying questions, two things become clear to me:

1. These people do not like me.
2. I am not in heaven.

I explain that after finding an agent, things got a lot easier, as she was able to guide me through the revisions that the manuscript needed. A woman fires back. “How the hell did you find an agent? Did you know somebody?”

“No, I didn’t know anybody.”

I explain the process I went through for finding an agent, and as I do, it becomes clear that the group cannot fathom me writing the whole book before ever finding someone to represent me. Though everyone in the group seems to be writing to one degree or another, they all seem to believe that short stories and flash fiction are they way to go until they find a literary agent. All seem to loathe the idea of spending the time to write a novel before being paid by a publisher upfront.

I begin to wonder how I might leave early, as this meeting is scheduled to last three hours.

In the midst of my interrogation, a woman describes her plan for a three book project: two novels and a nonfiction compendium that would later delve into some of the nonfiction elements of her fiction. She asks me for the best way to proceed in finding an agent to represent and sell her ideas.

“How about writing the first book first?” I say.

It’s as if I have shouted blaspheme from the rooftops of the world. She actually snorts a combination of disbelief and annoyance in my general direction.

Eventually the group turns its attention to the three writers scheduled to be critiqued and their pieces: a science fiction story, a piece of flash fiction, and a short story about a grieving protagonist who eventually drowns himself.

Though I have not received copies ahead of time, the work is passed to me and I am able to read it and make some comments as the group discusses. The flash fiction, 526 words in all, is quite good, but when I make a suggestion for revision, I realize that my critical remark is the first of the evening, and it is met with scorn. Apparently this group is less interested in critical exchange and more interested in congratulatory commentary.

The science fiction is a little overdone but clever nonetheless, and when I suggest adding simulated newspaper accounts to the story, perhaps in a sidebar, to move the plot forward, I am again given the cold shoulder.

Not simply a polite rejection of the idea, but a dismissive wave.

There is no hope for the suicide by drowning story. It's awful. But when I offer a joke referencing Ophelia in Hamlet, it’s met with bewilderment and at least one eye roll.

Thankfully, the meeting breaks half an hour early.

When I arrive home, Elysha greets me with a smile. "How did it go?" she asks like a mother asking her son about his first soccer practice. She's beaming. She's so happy for me. 

"I hated it," I said. "They were mean to me. Angry at me. They didn't like me."

Elysha consoles me. I don't go back next month. 

Two years later, I return to the group for another try. Maybe it just was a bad night. An aberration. Maybe the membership had changed in the two years since I had attended last. Maybe I'm simply a glutton for punishment. 

No change. Same people. Same response.

Oh well.

What were the three most important decisions of your life?

A recent Quora question asked, “What were the three most important decisions of your life?”

I’ve been debating this question for almost a month, and I have finally settled on three. While many decisions could have occupied these three spots, I decided to favor the toughest and most unlikely decisions of my life rather than the ones that were easy and obvious.

For example, deciding to marry Elysha is probably the most important decision of my life, but it was barely a decision. Who wouldn’t want to marry Elysha if given the chance? It was a no-brainer.

Instead, I found three extremely important decisions in my life that could have gone either way and changed the course of my life forever.

1. Maintaining my innocence when charged with grand larceny and embezzlement.

While being questioned about a crime that I did not commit, the police almost had me convinced to confess to the crime rather than risk a lengthy prison sentence. I spent a minute in a mop closet pondering that decision and ultimately decided to stick to the truth, but it was a close call. The police can apply a great deal of pressure in these moments, particularly when you are a 19 year-old kid without any parents, any money or an attorney.

The result was a brief period of homelessness, 18 months spent working 80 hours a week at two different jobs in order to pay a $25,000 attorney’s bill, a permanent case of post traumatic stress disorder as a result of an armed robbery, and a trial where I was found not guilty.

Had I confessed and accepted their plea deal, I could not have become a teacher. 

2. Choosing West Hartford Public Schools over Newington Public Schools.

In the summer of 1999, my hometown of Newington, CT had offered me a permanent position as third grade teacher in one of their elementary schools. I was asked for a day to consider their offer, but the wait time was merely perfunctory. I was taking the job.

During that 24 hour period, I received a call from a principal in West Hartford requesting an interview. Out of curiosity more than anything else, I agreed to speak to him that day. Three hours later, he had offered me a one year position covering a second grade teacher on maternity leave.

The permanent position in Newington would have been the wise and sensible choice. It was in my hometown and would provide me with long-term stability in a time when teaching jobs were hard to find. But I was impressed by the principal, his commitment to children, and his support for the arts. After much debate, I decided upon the one year position in West Hartford, and 16 years later, I am still teaching in the same school.

 

That decision changed my life. I met my wife while teaching at that school school. I met five of my closest friends while teaching, including the principal, who has since retired but remains one of my closest friends today. I met my son’s and daughter’s god parents while teaching at that school. Many of my former students are my children’s favorite babysitters, and one of my first students is our primary babysitter and like a member of the family.

I was given the freedom to create a classroom environment that placed reading, writing, and theater at its core, and I have developed a teaching philosophy that has led to much success in my field. I was named Teacher of the Year in West Hartford and was a finalist for Connecticut Teacher of the Year.

I started playing golf, a game that I love beyond all others, thanks to the friends I met at that school, and ultimately wrote a book about it. 

The school’s community, teachers, students, and parents, have become a second family to me. When my job and my future were threatened several years ago, they rallied around me in ways I could have never expected.

3. Saying yes when my best friend asked me to start a wedding DJ company with him.

In 1997, I was attending Trinity College and Saint Joseph's University fulltime, working on degrees in both English and elementary education. I was also managing a McDonald’s restaurant fulltime and tutoring students part-time at the college’s writing center. I was writing for the college’s newspaper. I was the Treasurer of the Student Senate.

I was busier than I had ever been in my life.

Then Bengi called and asked if I wanted to be a wedding DJ, even though we had no experience or equipment or knowledge of the industry, and I said yes.

Seventeen years later, we remain in business. I have entertained at more than 400 weddings in that time. The DJ company has provided me with much needed income through the lean times of my life.

I met one of my best friends while working as the DJ at his wedding, and that friendship has led to me becoming a Patriots season ticket holder. That same friend led me back into writing when I had given up hope on ever becoming a novelist and professional writer.

I would not have a writing career today had it not been for him. 

I unknowingly gained 17 years of public speaking experience, which allowed me to step into the world of storytelling and public speaking three years ago with unexpected ease and success. I won my first Moth StorySLAM in large part to the experience I gained as a DJ.

I have since competed in 24 Moth StorySLAMs in New York and Boston and won 12 of them. I’ve told stories for Main Stage shows and GrandSLAM championships and many other storytelling organizations in New York, Boston and Hartford. I would not be the storyteller and speaker I am today had I not worked for almost two decades as a wedding DJ.

 

Telling stories for The Moth led to the founding of Speak Up, the Hartford-based storytelling organization that my wife and I founded last year. In a little over a year, we have produced eight sell out shows, launched a series of storytelling workshops, and have now been approached by outside venues, asking us to take our show on the road.

The DJ business also led to me becoming ordained as a minister. I have presided over almost 20 weddings, one baptism, and three baby naming ceremonies in that time.

I’d love to hear your three most important decisions if you’re willing to share. Post in the comment sections. Send me an email. Contact me through social media.