Pull up a chair and sit with me, or better yet, lie down on the couch and pull a soft blanket over yourself.
It’s an hour before midnight. A large cup of chamomile tea mixed with honey is steaming on my desk nearby. Amber is asleep in the other room, and the house is quietly humming from its ceiling fans, servers, and the refrigerator.
Before I continue, welcome. My name is Leeman.
For all of my adult life, I have written over a thousand blog entries, dozens of essays, and over a hundred guides. Through many interactions with people, they have always wondered why I never dabbled into crafting my own books. There had been many ideas, but the thought of writing something to completion always felt exhausting. When I flip through a typical book that I enjoy, it’s 300-500 pages. I lose focus at 3-5. So, I’ve written down many concepts for stories over the decades, but never went far enough with them to motivate me to take anything seriously.
Now, approaching my late 40s, I found myself at a fork in the road. If I were 8 years old, I would surely be enchanted by how I have turned out. However, I wonder how the 80-year-old version of me would feel. I think he would be disappointed that I never took the chances I did and allowed myself to submit to my insecurities.
So I simply asked myself, “I’ve got 15-ish years to enjoy my life, if my body and my mind allow me, and the rest of my years is to make sure my health doesn’t ruin my elder years.” Sure, this might be a morbid thought, but it’s honest.
I look over to my left, where the long moss-green couch is, and imagine Rudi on it right now. He used to sleep there whenever I was in this room. He would wake up in the middle of the night to take a few licks of water, hunt for silverfish skittering around the floor, and sometimes hop onto the bed between Amber and me, only to leave again when he decided we were taking up too much of his space. “His space,” of course.
I miss him.
Rudi was my companion from May 15th, 2016 to May 15th, 2025. I did not even realize the date of his passing until a few days later. It was only after that I noticed the symmetry. And even now, months later, the grief does not feel distant. It feels recent. Immediate. Like something that still hasn’t quite settled inside me, and I wonder if it ever will.
And so, it was that grief that finally moved me. Not ambition, pressure, nor the desire to publish.
Grief.
Thus, I decided to write my first novelette: When We Met.
Not only is it small enough for me to complete, it’s broken up into five major parts – acts. Which means I am not forced to focus on persistent and consistent continuity. The last thing I want is to get burnt out over a tribute I am writing about someone I want to honour.
Anyhow, I hope you would stay and continue this journey with me.