The People I Meet on Tour Who Will Never Be Forgotten

On the road, life shrinks and expands at various times. Pleasant drives through our countrysides, airports, hotel lobbies, school auditoriums, backstage corridors, independent bookstores — they don’t all blur together like you might think; certain faces stay in perfect focus. Touring to perform and to share my books has taught me that some of the most lasting relationships aren’t measured in years, but in minutes: the span of a signing line, a hallway conversation, a shared walk to the parking lot.

When I step onto a stage, I’m thinking about craft and professionalism, but more importantly, passion, nearly a sensual sensation—delivering a performance worthy of the ticket, honoring the work that went into each book. But it’s the people in the seats who give the day and night its shape. I remember the rustle of programs as a crowd settles, the low hum of whispered conversations before the lights dim, the way the air changes when a room leans in at the same moment. Afterward, when the house lights come up and we all see each other clearly again, that’s when the real work begins. That’s when the fun pours forth.

Readers arrive with books pressed against their chests, spines softened from use. Some bring their children, nudging them gently forward with a wordless encouragement. Their voices tremble or boom with confidence. I catch the scent of rain on coats, coffee cooling in paper cups, the faint chemical sweetness of permanent markers as I sign my name. A few students wait until the line thins out, then ask the questions that couldn’t fit into the “official” text. Teachers stand nearby, tired but luminous, describing classrooms crowded with possibility and constraint. These are brief conversations, but they land with weight.

There are the event organizers who shepherd me from car to room, airport to venue, who know which microphone will work best in a cavernous gymnasium, and which independent bookstore has the creaky wooden floor that will make everyone speak a bit louder. Their professionalism and care remind me that my work as an author and performer is only one piece of a much larger choreography. I do my best to match their dedication with my own, whether I’m inviting someone to purchase a book, arrange a performance, or schedule an appearance that will serve their community well. I want so badly to leave their town richer.

And then there are the strangers. The person at the library who notices the manuscript open on my laptop and asks, calmly and without fanfare, what it means to write for other people as well as for myself. That question lives with me when I return home to my desk and step into my work with MICHAEL and OXFORD, where ghostwriting becomes a quiet collaboration. The same care I bring to the stage and the page, I bring to a client’s unwritten story, so they can step forward with a voice that feels fully their own. Some of those clients become so authentic, they now feel like close relatives.

I can’t list names or catalog every moment, but I carry them in details: the scrape of a folding chair on a gym floor, the warmth of a hand on my shoulder as someone simply says, “Thank you,” the way a parent’s eyes shine when they ask how to encourage a child who loves to write. These small encounters shape the books I create, the performances I offer, and the ghostwriting projects I accept when someone chooses to inquire about ghostwriting or request a consultation.

I have kept glancing at this teenage girl with her hands cupping her chin and her elbows glued to her knees. She has not budged in 45 minutes. Her eyes are wide open. She has not missed a beat between my singing and guitar strums, the careful imagery of every read poem. She is completely engrossed. Sometimes the young get criticized. I want to give her a hug and wish her every success. What a blessing of a person. I want to tell that young man in the balcony, “Just keep writing, my friend. You will become that guy who impresses the world with his talent.” Tour ends, contracts conclude, and I return to the quiet of my study. I take a pause and look out the window, all the way back to that girl. I miss that gathering already, although I do not complain. It was such a peaceful, tender session to place in my head and my heart. There you have it: the people I meet along the way do not disappear. They travel with me in the margins of my notes and in the cadence of my sentences, guiding what I say yes to next. I carry them forward, and in a very real way, they carry me, too. It is a common practice for me to write about those people, often making up a friendship that should have developed—all from my imagination. Funny thing: if I offered more time to those people, that friendship would most likely become true. As one of my poems so aptly states, “For the millionth time, a face I saw and a name I did not know; the moment I had left them, not really letting go.”