I threw myself into my work.

Once, many years later, before Kim and I were married, I would visited her in Kansas City. A first grade teacher who was renting a bedroom in Kim’s home knew I wrote for children’s television and asked me to come speak to her class.

I told the children what it took to write for television and how much I loved it. At the end of my lecture I asked if there were questions. A six-year-old girl named Rachel asked, “Is writing hard work?”

I answered, “Well, there are times when I write for ten, twelve, fourteen hours a day; sometimes more. At the end of the day, I’m not tired like this…” I pointed to my bicep. “But I’m tired like this…” I said, pointing to my left temple.

Rachel thought about this, then said, “I get it.”

Now, after hours of reading and rereading and re-rereading the Series Bible for The Get Along Gang and making copious notes, this was one of those fourteen-hour days. I was exhausted, drenched in sweat. I hit the shower, cold water washing over me.

I’d gotten too full of myself. Jean, Andy and Lori weren’t having meetings about how I “had potential and could be of benefit to them.” And it was a stretch to think they were “grooming me for something”. But I was thirty-four. I’d had three novels published and written, three television scripts, with more on the horizon. I might not be vital to the studio’s growth...yet. I wasn’t just a ‘cog’. I was in a good place. I decided to enjoy it…and to be thankful for it.