A Thousand Words

 

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. To quote a dearly departed songwriter, if you could read my mind, what a tale my thoughts could tell. 

The catch is I don't remember some of the finer details, nor do I want to. 

The photo you see above here was the last picture taken from what would become my last author signing event. I learned from my friends and colleagues to leave a piece of your work behind as a way to thank the hotel staff for their hospitality. 

I didn't know it at the time, but maybe this was a case of foreshadowing. I always loved using that tool in my stories.

I'm a lifelong pro wrestling fan. When I found this photo yesterday, the first thought that popped into my head was that of a veteran grappler ceremoniously taking off his boots and leaving them in the ring. This is a time-honored tradition and a clear sign that he has just competed in his final bout. 

I didn't realize it until last night. This photo symbolizes me leaving my boots in the center of the ring.

Some of you remember my back injury. It started a couple of weeks prior to this photo and seemingly out of nowhere. After some time, I felt better. Even though I told myself not to do anything too extraneous during my trip to South Carolina, I did the exact opposite. I set up large tables and chairs and lifted and carried heavy bins. At the end of my signing event, my body felt tired but still healthy. 

When I tried to get out of bed again a couple hours later, pain radiated throughout my lower half. Though I could barely walk, I struggled to pack my bags the next morning. I mailed a box of customized tumblers to New York because I forgot I had asked the organizer to bring them to the event for me. I didn't have room for them in my luggage.

Slowly and painfully, I walked through Greenville-Spartanburg International Airport, hiding my condition from a couple of other authors who were also returning home. 

Long story short, I had an MRI which revealed a herniated disc and spinal stenosis. My chiropractor insisted with proper rest and treatment, I would heal in three months. 

For most people, full recovery takes almost a year. I wasn't special. I was most people.

I didn't just suffer physically. I suffered financially. Between all the traveling to places like Kentucky and Virginia, I had racked up thousands of dollars of new debt. Don't get me wrong. I loved being invited to all these wonderful events. I truly enjoyed seeing new places, meeting new faces, and making friends. I simply failed to sell enough books and accessories to offset the costs.

Even as I released my spicy holiday story last December, I already knew the end was near. I'd failed as an author. I just didn't want to listen. I wanted to BE somebody. 

I looked at my work-in-progress, which was about 70% finished. It was hot garbage. The story was boring and had no clear direction. My ideas were not cohesive. It was one storyline which led to another completely unrelated storyline. It wasn't worth finishing.

I had no other ideas and no money to keep going. Plus, I had issues with work. All of this led to issues at home. In short, I was physically injured and mentally burnt out. I needed to stop. I made the equally painful decision to drop out of all of my 2025 events.

Then, I decided to do even more work by insisting I could promote others on a weekly basis. What a fool I was. If I couldn't do enough to help myself, how could I muster that same desire and ability to help others?

There are other parts to the story that I don't feel like rehashing. The truth is when it comes to the end of my author life, I've blocked out most of it. All I know is I lost some friends and I was in the wrong for projecting my issues and my failures onto them.

So, I left my boots in the ring - and breathed again. 

Maybe someday I'll have the courage to recall the rest of my story, the parts that don't end badly. Then again, they say all things end badly, otherwise they wouldn't end.

No, let me correct myself. They do end well for everyone. My author friends are great people. They are great, successful people. Don't think I haven't seen all of them succeed from afar. To my former colleagues - I'm happy for all of you, even the ones I don't talk to anymore. 

I was just a guy who loves sports and Disney and music, a guy who happened to stumble upon some great ideas for a few stories. I was a guy who loved to write. 

No, again, I correct myself. I *am* a guy who loves to write, even now. I just didn't love being an author. Perhaps I should have created a pen name from the start. Maybe in ten years' time, I'll find another story to write. A good story. If that ever happens, it won't be written by Brian Scala. 

I have a storage bin in the back of my closet containing what is essentially my entire author life. Other than a copy of each of my books inconspicuously placed on a bookshelf upstairs, you wouldn't know I was once "Author Brian Scala, curator of sports, spice, and second chances." I have Disney and Mets memorabilia splattered everywhere, but no author stuff. 

I still have my laptop. I still have an Atticus account and a Bowker login. I actually did release my last short story as a standalone on Amazon recently, just for the purposes of putting a bow on the whole thing. Am I still allowed to say that "A" word, by the way, or is it taboo? 

Either way, I don't have my boots. I didn't know it at the time, but one year ago today, I left them in a hotel room in Simpsonville, South Carolina. 

By the way, I overshot my thousand words, and I'm not editing this down. I don't have to. I'm not an author. ;)