Many people have asked me in the last few months if there will be a sequel to I'm Trying Here, my first book. The answer is no, at least not right now. I never rule out the possibility of future projects, but for now a continuation of my first work is not where I am headed. My next book that is on pace to be done by January or February is a more serious work, a book about the Holocaust, and my experiences learning about it, and visiting Auschwitz. It is a cross-breeding of genres, part historical, part philosophical, part motivational, and part memoir. I don't want to give too many spoilers, and I am not ready to unveil the title, but I would like to leave a few small excerpts for anxious readers. Stay tuned for new updates on the book's progress, title and cover. I am very excited about this book, and as a young delusional artist, I of course think it will be a masterpiece on par with New York Bestsellers. But until I reach some modicum of fame, I need you to go purchase my first book. If you already have, there are still two invaluable things you can do to help my career. You can leave a review on Amazon and or Goodreads, and you can tell a friend. Okay, enough begging for favors. Here are the excerpts, let me know what you think.
"I wake up. It’s 3:21 a.m. I’m twenty-seven years old. I haven’t been on a school bus for years, and I have long since left Arizona. I’m alone in a cheap hotel room in Warsaw, Poland. A familiar song reverberates in my foggy head. Its chorus repeats the simplistic and symbolic words, “I’m coming home, I’m coming home.” I go to the bathroom and return to bed wondering what elicited such a vivid and frightful dream."
"I looked towards the main entrance and saw white birds flying around in what looked like figure eights. I thought about how eternally free those birds were and how their whiteness and freedom contrasted so greatly with the victims of Auschwitz, the ghosts behind the barbed wire fences."
"I stood there and held back tears for the mothers who would never see their infants again, and my stomach churned for the fathers that would never teach their kids how to throw a ball, or anything for that matter. I thought of my own parents and the love that that they had woven into my life from day one. In the same way that you put yourself in the shoes of the protagonist in a dramatic movie, I put myself in the shoes of the family members that lost so much. I was reminded of the ingenious brevity of the author Thomas Wolfe who scattered his novel Look Homeward, Angel with the phrase “O Lost!”
"In the middle of the mountain of stolen suitcases, the name Greilsamer poked out, beneath it lay luggage of a Mr. Steindler. In the distance, barely visible, I saw Orov protrude through the rubble, almost as if to say, "Remember me?" I thought of my own surname and what it would look like on a discarded box of my belongings. The whole idea of it all ripped me insides apart. I shuffled on laterally and saw dozens more names, Slavic names I couldn't pronounce. But I knew they all had a history, a past full of holidays, newborns, smiles, and Bar Mitzvahs. I would never know the contents of these suitcases, nor would anyone else, and for some reason that bothered me."