On Writing and Storytelling: Six Sales, One Soul: A Quiet Celebration of Connection

Six Sales, One Soul: A Quiet Celebration of Connection

August has been quietly kind to me.

Six sales. Not six hundred, not sixty thousand—just six. But each one feels like a small act of trust, a reader somewhere choosing to spend time inside the emotional architecture I’ve built. Reunion: A Story and Comings and Goings – The Art of Being Seen found new homes this month, including two international ones: one in Spain, one in the UK. That’s not just reach—it’s resonance. Someone across an ocean saw something in the title, the cover, the promise of emotional truth, and said yes.

The royalties? Modest. I’m not Stephen King or James Patterson, nor do I aspire to their scale. But they’re royalties, are they not? Proof that the work lives beyond me, that it’s being read, felt, maybe even remembered.

And this morning, I woke up to a new review of Reunion: Coda—a quiet affirmation from a reader named Scott Dickert:

“The author does a very good job of telling a story in which the characters feel natural, and the themes are relatable… It reads and comes off like the characters are real people, with unique personalities and human thoughts, and aren’t just used as plot devices.”

That line stopped me. Because that’s the work. That’s the Garratyverse. Not spectacle, not plot gymnastics—just people, trying to be seen. Trying to love, remember, forgive, and stay present in the face of impermanence.

Scott’s words remind me why I write. Why I revise only for emotional fidelity. Why I treat intimacy as sanctuary, not performance. Why I believe that memory isn’t just a narrative device—it’s a form of belonging.

Here’s a scene from Reunion: Coda that, I think, speaks to the kind of emotional truth Scott responded to:

I looked around the cafeteria, searching for my best friend, Mark Prieto. He was supposed to meet me here for lunch, but he was nowhere to be seen. I took another bite of my pizza and started to worry. Maybe he had forgotten about our plans. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he had gotten into a fight.

Just as I was losing hope, I spotted Mark making his way towards me from the far end of the cafeteria where the lunch line and the cashiers were found. He had his usual jeans and button-down shirt on, and he carried a tray in his hands and a bright smile on his face. He gestured at me and approached the table.

“Hey,” he said. “Sorry I’m late. I had to go to the bathroom.”

“No problem,” I said. “I was just starting to worry about you.”

Mark sat down across from me, his lunch tray in front of him. We chatted about our classes, our plans for the week, and the latest gossip. I laughed and relaxed, forgetting all about my worries.

After a while, Mark took one last bite of his pizza and made a face. “This pizza is terrible,” he said. “It’s so greasy and the crust is hard.”

I laughed. “I know,” I said. “That’s why I always get the oatmeal cookie.”

Mark reached over and took a bite of my cookie. “This is good,” he said. “Can I have another bite?”

I laughed again and told him he could have the rest of my cookie.

“So, how are your classes?” I asked.

“They’re okay. I’m really digging Business Ed, though. Especially Business Math.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

“Well, for one thing, I like math. It’s fun and useful. And for another thing, Ms. Garcia is hot.”

I rolled my eyes. Mark had a crush on every attractive female teacher in the school.

“Come on, man. She’s old enough to be your mom.”

“So? She’s still cute. And she’s nice. And she knows her stuff.”

I shook my head. Mark was hopeless.

“Whatever you say, buddy. Whatever you say.”

Suddenly, Mark’s eyes widened. “Hey, I heard you signed up for chorus,” he said. “I know we talked about it over the Christmas break, but I thought you’d chicken out.”

I smiled. “No, I didn’t chicken out,” I said. “How’d you find out?”

Mark waggled his eyebrows. “Everyone here knows almost everyone else. Word gets around, bud.”

“Ah,” I said.

“Seriously, though. I’m glad you decided to do something fun besides all that AP stuff you’re taking. I know you take school seriously, but sometimes you take it way too seriously.”

“I’m really excited about it.”

“What’s your teacher like? Mrs.-?”

“Quincy,” I said. “Well, she’s cool, I guess. If I had to describe her succinctly, I’d say she’s a cross between a sweet grandmother and a Marine drill instructor.”

“’ Succinctly,’” Mark repeated. “Oh, look at you and your fancy shmancy vocabulary!” He laughed, but not unkindly; he knew that my dream was to be a historian like Cornelius Ryan.

I took a sip of my chocolate milk. Mark took a swig from his half-pint carton of plain milk.

“Good ole moo juice,’ Mark said. “So, which group did you end up joining, Mr. Singing Cobra?”

“I thought that was general knowledge, my friend.”

“Well, I heard you joined the chorus; I didn’t hear which of the choruses,” Mark said.

“The men’s ensemble,” I deliberately chose the alternative name for the Boys’ Choir. I was 16, not 12.

“Why not Mixed Chorus? There are girls there, you know.”

At the mention of “girls,” I glanced down. Only slightly, and only for a split second. I hoped Mark hadn’t noticed.

“Have to start somewhere, you know,” I said as casually as possible.

“You used to sing at Kinloch Park. I wouldn’t call that ‘starting somewhere.’”

“Mark, that was in sixth grade. We’re in 10th grade – “

“Halfway through 10th grade, my friend,” Mark interjected.

“Fine,” I replied, annoyance creeping into my voice. “Halfway through 10th grade. But you’re talking about when we were kids in sixth grade. My voice has changed a bit since then, and I haven’t done a lot of singing over the past three years.”

“Except for when you sing the main theme from Star Wars.”

“That’s humming, not singing,” I retorted.

“Whatever.”

“Seriously. I’m a bit rusty. I figured I’d start with the basics. You know, like dipping a toe in the pool before going swimming. Baby steps, man. Baby steps.”

Mark cocked an eyebrow in wry amusement. Then, his expression changed to something akin to understanding. “Hey, I’m only yanking your chain a bit, bud. I’m happy that you’ve decided to do something besides study, play solo wargames, and read books all the time. You’re still a kid, you know. You’ll have plenty of time for that history stuff after we graduate in two and a half years.”

I laughed. “Still keeping to that countdown to graduation, I see.”

Mark snorted. “I don’t hate school; I mean…look at all the girls here,” he said, nodding to one of the other tables, where Ann Saroyan, one of the JV cheerleaders, was having lunch and chatting amiably with three other girls from the squad.

I sneaked a peek at the object of Mark’s attention, hoping she wouldn’t notice. It was Ann, of course. One of the prettiest girls in Cobra Country, by a long shot. I had known her since third grade, but we never got past exchanging polite greetings. I once fancied her in fifth grade, but I soon learned that she didn’t go for nerdy boys like me. So, I gave up on her and dreamed of Farrah Fawcett-Majors instead, the blonde bombshell of my 11-year-old fantasies.

“Point,” I said.

Before Mark could reply, I noticed a blur of blue and white moving in the general direction of our table.

I sipped my chocolate milk and pointed at the cafeteria entrance. “Do you see her?” I asked Mark. “The girl who just walked in.”

Mark looked up and scanned the room. “Who? Where?”

“There,” I said. “The one with the long chestnut hair and the blue denim outfit. She’s heading for the lunch line.”

Mark squinted and nodded. “Yeah, I see her. She’s pretty. Who is she?”

I shrugged. “I don’t remember her name. But she sang ‘We’ll Meet Again’ this morning. She was amazing.”

Mark raised his eyebrows. “Wait. I thought the first period was just the boys’ chorus. She auditioned?”

I nodded. “Yeah, the period was almost over, and Mrs. Quincy hasn’t picked songs for us to practice, so we guys were just talking in class. It was almost boring, really, until she showed up. She has a voice like an angel. And a British accent.”

Mark whistled. “Wow, sounds like you have a crush on her.”

I felt my face heat up. “No, I don’t. I just think she’s talented. And nice.”

Before Mark could tease me further, the girl walked up to our table and smiled shyly at me.

“Hi,” she said. “I wanted to thank you for helping me with the audition earlier.”

I blinked, surprised, and flustered. “All I did was give Mrs. Quincy a pen so she could sign a form – ” I racked my brain for her name.

She blushed but kept smiling. “Martina,” she said. Her voice was soft and warm, and I felt a tingle in my chest. “But you can call me Marty.”

“Marty,” I repeated.

“You were very kind – ” she continued.

“Jim,” I interrupted, holding out my hand.

She took it and shook it gently. “Nice to meet you, Jim,” she said. “I have to go now. Lunch and fourth period, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said, feeling a pang of disappointment. “See you around, Marty.”

She waved and walked away, joining the lunch crowd at the back of the cafeteria.

I watched her go until Mark nudged me on the shoulder.

“Come on, Jim. We have to get to class. Second lunch is starting. You don’t want to miss algebra, do you?”

“No, of course not,” I said, tearing my eyes away from Marty.

If you’ve read any of my work and found something that stayed with you—however briefly—I’d be grateful for a review. And if you haven’t yet stepped into the Garratyverse, perhaps this is the month to do so. Every purchase, every review, every quiet moment of connection helps me keep going.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for seeing.