On Writing and Storytelling: The Art of Letting Go (At 3 A.M.)

The Art of Letting Go (At 3 A.M.)

Sometimes, despite our most careful planning and well-paced intentions, life leaves a Post-it on your heart that simply reads: now. I had originally planned to release Comings and Goings – The Art of Being Seen in the fall of 2025, imagining it arriving alongside the turning leaves and cooler skies. But these are uncertain times—globally, locally, and sometimes even just across the street. And I kept thinking: maybe this quiet little story wasn’t meant to wait.

So, yesterday, I hit “publish.”

And last night—well, if we’re being honest—I was up until 3 A.M. re-uploading files, fixing overlooked details, and chasing down that last elusive “hard return” that was off just enough to catch my eye after I thought the work was done. There’s always one, isn’t there? That small imperfection you see only when the world’s asleep and you’re too tired to argue with your better judgment.

But somewhere between file verifications and staring into the digital abyss, I remembered: the enemy of done is perfect. And maybe that one misplaced line break is a quiet reminder that stories—like people—are rarely flawless, but often still worthy of being seen.

So yes. It’s real. It’s live. As of yesterday, Comings and Goings is available in Kindle format for $2.99, and the paperback ($9.99) will make its way into the world on July 1.

This one’s close to my heart.

Boston, 1984. A party Jim Garraty never wanted to attend. A girl who didn’t look away. A night stitched together by mixtapes, quiet courage, and the ache of choosing to stay.

Jim isn’t chasing romance—he’s just trying to outrun the noise. But when Kelly Moore enters the room with her drink, her Rachmaninoff references, and her uncanny ability to see without pressing, everything shifts. Over cassette tapes and Heineken beer, conversations deepen, touch becomes language, and for the first time, intimacy feels less like performance and more like breath.

Comings and Goings – The Art of Being Seen is a quietly luminous companion to the Reunion Duology, capturing one night’s transformation from awkward beginnings to the kind of closeness that rewrites your inner dialogue. It’s about music, memory, and the rare kindness of someone meeting you where you are—with patience, humor, and unexpected grace.

This isn’t a story about first love.

It’s a story about the first time you didn’t have to explain yourself.

And maybe that’s why this moment felt like the right one to share. Not because everything was perfectly in place—but because he was:

It was 1984, unmistakably so—Jordache and Calvin Klein jeans hugged long legs, paired with pastel tees, Harvard sweatshirts, or blouses that shimmered slightly in the dim lighting. Some girls wore their hair big—carefully styled into perfect waves—while others let theirs fall straight and sleek. The guys were a mixed bunch. A few clung to longish late-‘70s cuts, holding onto an era just barely past; others kept their crewcuts sharp, the kind of clean-cut presence that screamed ROTC. Some went for the middle ground—short, conservative styles, neatly in place.

Most of them were either rowdy or lucky enough to be paired off—dancing, swaying in time, or pressed into corners, lost in whispered conversations or half-hearted make outs.

I scanned the crowd, searching for familiarity, for someone I might recognize besides the one guy I knew from English Comp II—but he was tucked away in a dark corner, wrapped up in his girlfriend and completely oblivious to the rest of the room.

No anchor. Just noise and bodies and me, wedged against a wall, sipping a beer I didn’t even like.

I had staked out a spot early, leaning against the wall like some reluctant observer of the chaos, sipping at my beer without enthusiasm, watching the movements of the night unfold around me.

Then, she slipped into my periphery, her presence registering before I fully processed it. I had just resigned myself to another ten minutes of standing against the wall when she appeared beside me, moving into my orbit with the kind of quiet confidence that didn’t demand space—it just fit.

Blonde, tall, effortlessly poised—long hair falling past her shoulders, freckles softening sharp cheekbones. Her blue eyes flicked toward me, just briefly, assessing with an ease that suggested she’d already read the room and found me the easiest puzzle to solve.

“You’re not having a good time, are you?”

Her voice, touched with amusement but not unkind, carried a soft lilt, warm and measured, like the kind that poured over you slow, with a trace of honeyed charm. It wasn’t teasing—it lingered just on the edge of playful, without tipping over.

I exhaled, tipping my beer slightly, forcing a half-hearted shrug. “The party’s fine,” I said, knowing full well I wasn’t selling it. “Could be better if the beer wasn’t terrible.”

She arched a knowing brow, her lips pulling into something close to a smirk. “That’s a nice story, but I’m not buying it. I mean, Bud is horse piss, basically, but I’m good at reading body language. And yours has ‘I’m not having a good time’ written all over it.”

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, feeling the heat creep up the back of my neck. I’d never been good at pretending, but her presence sharpened that flaw like a spotlight.

My fingers tightened slightly around my beer, then relaxed. I kept my gaze steady on hers—not too intense, not wandering, just focused, the way I’d always been taught was polite.

“Okay, fine,” I admitted, the words exhaling on a breath of reluctant honesty. “I don’t really know anyone here except this guy from English Comp II. But he’s off in one of the dark corners with his girlfriend, so…” I let the sentence trail off, the implication hanging between us.

Sometimes a single question changes the shape of a night—and everything after.

Thanks for reading. For waiting. For seeing.