The Story of the Stories

That’s a lot of bells. A lot of chalk dust. A lot of years spent watching the world move on while you stay in the same room, molding the minds of people who are eventually going to leave you behind. It’s a grind. A noble one, sure, but a grind nonetheless.

Then, three years ago, the weather changed.

In walks a coach. Professional development. Usually, these things are just noise—a way to kill an afternoon while you think about the grading pile sitting on your desk. But this guy starts talking about the craft. Not just teaching it, but doing it.

We did the drills. The exercises. The heavy lifting we usually ask the kids to do. And suddenly, the ghosts started screaming. All those old dreams—the books I’d buried under lesson plans and parent-teacher conferences—came clawing their way back to the surface.

I didn't hesitate. I jumped.

I started planning. I started crafting. I started building a world, word by word, in the quiet hours when the school was empty. This wasn't a hobby. It was a mission. This was my time.

They love that tired old line, don’t they? “Those who can’t, teach.” It’s a lie. A cheap shot from people who’ve never stood on the front lines.

Here’s the truth: Doing gives you the scars. And the scars give you the experience. You don’t just teach the story; you live it until you’re the only one who can tell it.

I’d done my time in the classroom. Now, it was my turn to shine in the dark.

For real this time.