I wrote this book in four weeks.
Oh, it was crude. It was raw. And it was absolutely nothing like what it is today — but the bones of it, the shape of the story, that came fast.
I honestly thought I was writing a travel blog.
That was the plan, anyway. But I got bored with that, so I added a character. Then others started to show up. I didn’t know who they were, or where they’d come from. I didn’t know where it was going. And that’s when it got interesting.
It felt like Franco — and the people around him — were writing the story themselves. I was just the journal keeper, following along.
By the time I got to the second draft, I was surprised by some of the things I’d written. Not all of it was good — some of it was absolute trash. But between all the noise, there were lines, moments, little pieces of dialogue that made me stop and think, Did I write that?
And I was proud that I had.
This book wasn’t plotted. It wasn’t planned. It grew. It breathed. It became something I didn’t expect — and something I care deeply about.
Maybe that’s the only way I know how to write.
And honestly, I think I’m okay with that.