I was a sophmore in college, just completed my first half marathon two days before (hence the brightly colored shirt) and I was brimming with excitement. I had no idea what I was saying yes to, but like marriage, I was ready to jump in because I was in love. What was I in love with, you ask? I was in love with a story, that I hadn’t even met yet.

“Want to go for a run to the beach?” Began the day.

My legs were still wet noodles from my 13.1 miler a few days previous, but how could I refuse? Also, how could I let this white haired man, named Scott, who looked to be in much better shape than I was outdo me? I couldn’t. So I laced up my shoes and we started off at a nice pace.

I had met Scott over the phone a few months prior, when he called me to discuss a “writing opportunity.” He had heard through a mutual friend, that I was in school for creative writing and had just gotten back from a three month mission trip to Cambodia. Apparently, he had decided I might be a good fit for the story of his friend, named Rindy. Looking back now, I’m immensely grateful that he did, even though I’m not sure he still is today (going on five years later and I’m still editing). I’ll never forget the feeling I got when I first heard about the “writing opportunity.” It was a true story about his friend who survived the Cambodian Genocide. Scott worked with him at the hospital and knew that it was a story that needed to be told. That was the tag line and I was hooked from the get go, unable to comprehend that he had asked me (me) to write it. A few weeks later, my mom and I flew to Florida to meet Scott and Rindy.

Once we made it to the beach (which seemed like a forever distance from the house), we collapsed onto the rose colored sand to discuss the “terms and conditions.” We talked more about the book and what we hoped it would accomplish for the good of Cambodia and my dreams of becoming a real writer soared to the clouds. I couldn’t wait to meet Rindy the next day and begin.

Looking back on that day, it’s ridiculously evident how naive and inexperienced I was in what it meant to write a book, what it meant to walk through a genocide hand-in-hand with someone else’s memories, and what it would be like to tell about it. I’m convinced that the ignorance that comes with inexperience is bliss. It’s a bliss that stirs with passion and excitement, hope and optimism, giving the shell it lives in the push in needs to get started on a journey that I wouldn’t have begun without it.