Whoa, I Wrote That

Monday, November 24, 2025, Orlando, Florida

Most writers don’t bother rereading their own books. You’d think we’d want to relive the glory—but after wrangling with my first novel, Reunion: Coda, I get it. I spent two years chasing inspiration across three cities—Tampa, Madison (NH), Miami—all just to produce a 400+ page epic that hops between Miami, New York, and two decades (the early ’80s and early 2000).

From March 2023 to April 2025, I clocked about 20 hours a week—Monday through Friday—on something I lovingly called The Manuscript. My mission? Pull Jim Garraty, Mark Prieto, Marty Reynaud, and a whole supporting cast out of my head and onto the page. Amazon reviewer Thomas Wikman called it “a love story complicated by life,” which, frankly, is the understatement of the century. The whole process was a rollercoaster of self-doubt, writer’s block, and chaos—two interstate moves in less than a year didn’t exactly help, either. And let’s be real: as much as I adore writing, coming up with a worthy continuation to my much shorter Reunion: A Story felt less like a creative journey and more like a never-ending marathon. If you’ve never tried to make imaginary people and places seem real, let me assure you—it’s far trickier than it looks.

So yes, I understand why most authors only revisit their books during signings or promotional events. After spending countless hours with those characters, most are ready to break up and move on to new literary flings. But here’s my confession—I’m one of those quirky writers who actually reread their own books after launch.

Why? Sometimes I just want to make sure all my i’s are dotted and t’s are crossed. I’m meticulous during pre-publication, but then I race to hit “Publish” on Kindle Direct Publishing—only to discover, too late, that a small army of formatting gremlins has invaded my manuscript during its journey from Word to Kindle Create (a program that’s basically the wild west of formatting issues). Without an editor or big-time publisher to catch my blunders, I find myself tinkering with Reunion: Coda or its spinoff, Comings and Goings – The Art of Being Seen, for months after release, chasing perfection one comma at a time.

And let’s be honest—I don’t claim to have penned the Great American Novel (that’s for the critics and readers to decide, not me). But given enough time, I can put some emotional distance between my Writer self and my Reader self, and genuinely enjoy the tale I’ve spun—even though I should, in theory, know every twist, punchline, and dramatic pause. After all, I brought these stories and characters into existence, right? Yet, there are moments when I stumble upon a chapter, a snappy exchange, or just a clever line, and I catch myself grinning, thinking, “Damn, I actually wrote that!” It’s a weird sort of delight, marveling at your own handiwork as if it’s brand new.

But that “Whoa, I wrote that” feeling? It gets dialed way up when I hear my own stories performed on Audible. Right now, Reunion: A Story (brought to life by the talented Brandon Padilla) and Comings and Goings – The Art of Being Seen (expertly narrated by Bryan Haddock) are both out there in the wild, available for anyone with a pair of headphones and a long commute. Reunion: Coda is due to join them in February 2026. Listening to Bryan breathe dimension into Comings and Goings is just as surreal—and comfortingly rewarding—as watching Ronnie and the Pursuit of the Elusive Bliss, the short film I wrote for my friend, actor-director Juan Carlos Hernandez, five years ago. There’s something about hearing your prose take shape in someone else’s voice, or seeing scenes you dreamed up flickering across a screen, that makes you pause, sit back, and think, “Whoa. I wrote that!”

Maybe it’s the distance, maybe it’s the magic of collaboration, but in those moments, the lines between creator and audience blur in the best possible way. It’s like rediscovering your own words, freshly minted, as if some part of you managed to surprise yourself. That’s a sensation I wouldn’t trade for anything—even if it means enduring a few formatting gremlins or plot holes along the way. And every time I catch myself smiling at a line or leaning into a narrator’s cadence, I’m reminded: Whoa, I wrote that.