The myth about Narcissus is one of my favorites. 

It’s one of those perfectly written stories that weave vanity, and a lack of self-awareness, into a Greek tragedy with layers of lessons that I can’t help but see for myself. Narcissus, the hunter, couldn’t accept love from others, but when Nemesis led him to a pool of still water, Narcissus fell so deeply in love with his reflection that he eventually lost his will to live.

Narcissus stared at his own reflection for so long that he died.

Sometimes I feel like I’m a narcissist just for writing a blog about my life. It’s indulgent. But if I’m being honest, my writing has the power to lull me into an intoxicating and narcissistic reflection of my own words that can entrance me, and take me into another realm in my mind. 

But for me, looking back at myself during this specific time in my life feels more like looking into a rippled reflecting pool that bounces back ugly truths, and things that I’ve tried to hide under the fathoms of water with the hope that they would never rise to the surface. But I guess a story about myself is only worthy of writing or reading if I’m willing to dredge up the past for the sake of understanding.

So let the dredging begin…

The first time I met “Sam,” I was such a mess inside. I was afraid he’d be too cool to think much of me, and that once he discovered how inexperienced I was at writing scripts, he’d pretty much let me buy him a cup of coffee, and then blow me off. Of course, I wasn’t even sure I could buy him a coffee because I didn’t know if he was Mormon — because Mormons don’t drink coffee. 

But Sam turned out to be this very unassuming guy wearing jeans, a dusty hoody, and a well-worn baseball cap. When he walked into the coffee shop, he came right up to my table — like he knew who I was before I ever noticed him. When I looked up, I was surprised to see how gentle and friendly he seemed. I think I was expecting some brassy, seasoned professional who could size me up and dismiss me after I said the word, “hello.” 

But Sam seemed nice.

He allowed me to buy him the first of many “dirty chai lattes” that day, and over hot drinks on a chilly afternoon, Sam told me his story. He left Hollywood years prior because the life he had there left him feeling empty and lost — and he deeply missed his Utah roots. He said living in Utah centered him. But, he told me that he missed the storytelling part of his career. He had moved on to other pursuits in his life, but when he got my email, he was intrigued.

Sam told me that my series “logline” (which is the single sentence that describes your narrative) completely caught his attention. He loved it, in fact, which made my heart so happy. 

My memories of my first encounter with Sam are filled with such optimism. He said that it had been a while since he’d written a script, but in his exact words, “I can write a complete episode in my sleep. It’s just that easy for me.” 

I was over the moon with the idea that someone who knew exactly what to do — and could do it with his eyes closed — was open to helping me! The two of us talked so easily, and I found myself telling Sam things about my writing experiences, my love of weaving God and the Truth into a secular narrative, and, how lost and lonely being a writer could make me feel sometimes. 

Everything I said seemed to only make Sam more interested in listening to me. Sam was present — the way Roy had been when we spoke about my passions — and it felt amazing to be so free in the things I could say to this perfect stranger.

After we finished our drinks, we walked over to Lou’s office so I could introduce Sam to my husband, and so I could get Sam a copy of Hurricane Season. I still had one more test to pass with Sam. He wanted to read the novel first to see if there was a story that we not only could but also should adapt. 

Sam was a very contained guy, and I remember noticing how deeply he tucked his hands into the pockets of his hoody as we walked side-by-side on the sidewalk. There was something very awkward but charming about how he shuffled along in stride with me. He seemed jittery and nervous every now and then, but when we were talking about storytelling, he’d suddenly shift into the easy banter of a pro that was both measured and controlled. 

Every word Sam said mattered to me.

Clearly, I was already turning Sam into an endearing character in my own personal narrative. I was starting to fall in love with my novel again, and, I was well on my way to having a deep crush on Sam’s ability to help me write it in a new way.