A hero of mine just lost his home in a California wildfire. He’s more than just my hero; he’s a national treasure. A Made-in-America success story. Steven Pressfield. Mom saw him on Oprah’s Super Soul Sunday a decade ago and ordered me his book on maximizing creative potential. You’ve probably heard me talk about it before. It’s called The War of Art. If there is any creative endeavor that is tugging at you—a screenplay, a novel, a startup, a nonprofit for at-risk teens—I implore you to get this massive little paperback. I’ve probably ordered more than ten of them since 2014. Every time I meet a fellow writer or seeker at a new prison, I end up leaving them my copy when I transfer.

War of Art is not his only book. His most popular work was made into a movie featuring Will Smith—The Legend of Bagger Vance. He’s written other screenplays and books as well. Fiction and nonfiction. After driving semis and crisscrossing the U.S. during the late ’60s and ’70s, hellbent on destroying himself, doing everything except the one thing he was born to do, he finally began banging out his first story on an old typewriter while living in a van. When he finished that one, he immediately began the next. Forty years later, he’s still writing. Still living his message: Do the work.

I had been telling Shonda I wanted to write him and send him some of my novels since we first started Astral Pipeline Books in 2020. Another letter to the Universe. I’ve written hundreds over the years. Presidents, professors, producers, politicians . . . But Steven Pressfield was not just some industry guy I wanted to make an elevator pitch to. He was my guru. His book gave me the blueprint on how to conquer myself daily and approach the craft like a professional. Without his guidance, there would be no On the Shoulders of Giants. No Miranda Rights series. No Stick & Stones.

I was in between state and federal prison when I finally began the letter. I wrote it in pencil on the floor of a jail cell in Milton, Florida, around Christmas of 2023. The Milton Hilton. I might have procrastinated a little longer if not for a gentle nudge from Shonda who told me he was nearing 80 years old. I had no idea.

I don’t expect responses to my letters anymore. Half the time, the boxes of books we send get intercepted by gatekeepers and assistants and are probably disposed of with the rest of the junk mail. I don’t take it personal. My job is to write the best books I can and send them all over the world. Exhaust every avenue. This is the one thing I can control—the work. And the work is its own reward. (I learned this from Steven Pressfield.)

So you can imagine my reaction when he wrote me back! He didn’t just write me back. He sent a box of his own books to Mom’s house. Leather-bound collectors type stuff, hardcovers, titles I have not yet read. Very cool. He said he enjoyed reading Letters to the Universe. And he offered to buy me dinner when I get out. The return address on his letter was Malibu, California.

My mind keeps going back to the opening pages of War of Art where he describes his writing process—putting on his boots with special shoelaces from his niece, his lucky hoodie, a charm he got from a gypsy in France, his military dog tags with the name “Largo” on them, aiming a tiny cannon his friend brought him back from Morro Castle in Cuba at his chair to fire off inspiration, going through a few other little ritualistic things . . . then beginning the day’s hunt. Will it be good? Doesn’t matter. Doing the work is his chief concern. After a few hours in the story-world, he would hit a point of diminishing returns, shut down shop for the day, copy his progress on a disc and lock it in his van for safety “in case of a fire.” I remember reading this for the first time and thinking, “Come on, man. Stashing a copy in the van in case of a fire. That’s a little overkill.”

Yeah, not so much.

I hope he had time to prepare. I hope he was able to gather all those little items that have been part of his process over the years. The cannon, the laces, the Largo dog tag . . . I hope his current work-in-progress was saved to a thumb drive in his vehicle, just like in War of Art. I doubt he grabbed my books. I’m pretty sure they were low on the list of things to shove in the bag during the chaos of evacuation. I keep thinking about them too though, my books. All the love and struggle and hope tied up in those words, now embers 2,000 miles across the country, swirling in the Santa Ana winds.

Mostly, I’m just glad he made it out. “The most important things in life aren’t things.” I was on the fence about writing this. Especially since he hasn’t said anything about it on Substack to date. He’s not the type of dude to post about things like this. A book, absolutely. But a drive-by tweet or TikTok video lamenting his own misfortune? I wouldn’t hold my breath. He’s from a bygone era, one where men don’t wear life’s injustices on their sleeves like badges of honor. And I’m definitely not trying to capitalize on his misfortune. Again, I debated even writing this. I told Shonda as much on the phone the other night. But as soon as we hung up and I was walking back to my cell, I spotted a book by the stairwell. (I stop for abandoned books in prison the way some people stop for stray animals out there in society. I can’t resist.) The cover art was a fiery scene. Burning ships in harbor. When I reached for it, I spotted the author and title. Tides of War by Steven Pressfield.

A green light from the Universe.

If you have not yet read War of Art, you should interpret this message as your own little green light from the Universe and order yourself a copy. It’s a small book that coincides perfectly with the New Year’s resolutions you just set. And it supports a guy who just lost his home.

Your unlived life awaits.

—January 16, 2025