My Journey: From the Worst of Places to the Best of Intentions

The party came to a screeching halt when I ended up in prison.

Talk about a rude awakening.

Back in ‘07, I found myself in hot water over what the good ol’ U.S. of A. so eloquently referred to as “financial shenanigans.” And they did whatever it took to convince a jury that I was their Madoff. I’ve certainly done my fair share of questionable things in life, but I was not the villain in their particular saga. “Still.”

The universe has a peculiar way of balancing the scales.

Look, I used to walk around like I was the lead in my own Entourage, believing I”‘d paid my dues to live this lavish lifestyle. Small-town nobody from Nowhere, Indiana, was hustling diamonds in Africa, flippin”‘ properties in sunny Florida, dabbling in sushi joints and nightclubs. Heck, I even had an online flower biz in Ecuador and a software company in Scottsdale. And the jet-setting? Forget about it.

I began to think my shit didn’t stink.

Enter the IRS, followed by the big house, i.e. prison.

Ugh! The boredom was excruciating. Literally, nothing to do. I went to see my case manager, wondering what spectacular moneymaking opportunities might be available. The guy told me, get this, “Well, according to policy, the only thing you really can do is write books.” He even had the audacity to laugh when he said it. A fuckin”‘ riot, right?

This was the first time anyone had ever mentioned writing a book to me.

The fuck I know about writing?!

A month or so later, still bored out of my skull, no writing aspirations to speak of, I opened an old-fashioned poker table. The thing is, I had zero experience playing the game. Not to mention, it wasn’t BOP-sanctioned. We had to use “lookouts” and hide from the cops in order to play.

I decided I was gonna be the House.

Hey, how hard could it be? Some ‘guy wearing the same jersey as me’ plops down, and asks for chips, and I just have to jot it down. Then, at the end of the night, I gotta make a note of what he cashes back in. “I eat math for breakfast” fucking piece of cake.

Now, since I was taking a cut of every pot, it was my responsibility to pay the winners at the end of the week, even if the losers didn’t pony up. I mean, everyone”‘s honest in prison, am I right? Eventually, the inevitable happened when a couple of gang members decided they didn’t feel like settling their tab.

What’s this white boy gonna do about it? I could see their wheels spinning.

The next day, I caught ’em in the back of the unit, no one else around. I won. Later that night, a prison shank went to my neck. There was an altercation. I won. However, I ended up in the “special housing unit” for fifteen months. While in the hole, I had a legal call with my appellate attorney. He asked what I did all day in the SHU? I told him, “I read.” He suggested I write a book. Why does everyone keep saying that?

It was the second time this book thing had come up.

Trapped in a 6×9 concrete box with a steel door that never opens, the same walls, the same uncomfortable steel bed, the same foul-smelling towel, the same grimy toilet, for four hundred and fifty-plus straight days. It’s torment I wouldn’t wish on my prosecutor, okay maybe her, but certainly no one else.

I experienced solitary confinement for longer than most. All I did was read anything I could get my hands on. Luckily, toward the end of my term, I got a cellmate. He subscribed to the USA Today, which they brought around at mail call. I would eagerly devour it once he was done. One day, the front page featured an article on the top 10 hardest things to accomplish in a lifetime. Lo and behold, you guessed it, completing a novel was on the list.

Fuck it; that’s three.

Let’s write a book.

The very next day, I just so happened to finish another one of those oh-so-thrilling whodunit novels. As is my habit, I read the acknowledgments section at the back. In this particular book, the author thanked the president of the United States of America for being an avid fan and for taking the time to show him around the White House. Got me thinking, What if I could write a book that would end up on the nightstand of someone with the power to magically whisk me out of this wretched prison?

In my self-absorbed mind, I truly believed that I could simply write my way out of this predicament.

My ego and narcissistic tendencies kicked into high gear.

In less than fifty pages of handwritten scribbling, I’d convinced myself that I was destined to write a book that would soar to the top of the prestigious New York Times Best Seller list.

No, not overnight. I’m not a delusional ego-centric type.

For the next eight years, I dedicated myself to two noble pursuits: becoming the best human being ever and a #1 New York Times bestselling author.

I completed my first two novels in prison working drafts of them anyway. Two years’ worth of scratch paper in the SHU, I wrote on the insides of Saltine cracker boxes ’til I held a printed copy in my hands. There’s no feeling quite like it.

I don’t recommend anyone try this my way, and the US Government should not expect a Christmas card, but prison was the greatest thing to ever happen to me. It was there, inside those dank, 6×9 concrete walls, that I wrote myself out of the prison of who I used to be.

Now, let’s get to that #1 spot.

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