There’s never a great way to start writing a book. I sure didn’t intend to. (I still don't think I did, hence why it's here and not being published by a vanity publisher with a wholly unoriginal name like Page Publishing or something.) In fact, I feel as though most of the literary greats sat down to write a poem or a short story and then, seven years later, a book just kind of fell out of their heads. Hell, I bet even JK Rowling never anticipated Harry Potter would become the self-contained universe and money-maker it turned in to when she first sat down to write The Sorcerer’s Stone all the way back in 1990.

(Ms. Rowling. If you’re reading this at any point ever, please adopt me or put my name in the will. Sincerely, a guy who has no business writing.)

But I digress.

Nonetheless, I always see the same plot. The same simple plan developed by countless authors or screenwriters or whoever the hell decides they can suddenly write pure poetry on a Monday afternoon in a rundown coffee shop with free Wi-Fi in Boston. Our mighty hero (let’s call her Dorothy) living a simple life in a random wasteland (let’s call it Kansas) is struck by a great tragedy (maybe a tornado because, well, Kansas) and is set on a whirlwind adventure which sees her leaving the comfort of home to conquer an unconquerable foe (maybe a witch or a wizard?) before returning home to the status quo. Sound familiar? Exactly… The Hunger Games.

Though I must confess I am one of those hopeless “whoever-the-hell’s” that suddenly decided I can write. About everything. And everyone. And everywhere. For some reason. Not in a coffee shop in Boston but instead from the relative (dis)comfort of a brick and mortar dorm room atop a hill somewhere at the Ohio-West Virginia border. I was overtaken by hubris and, in a fit of blind creativity, threw away three and a half years of a Biology degree to pursue a career in English. And it has gone

Well it’s gone. Average maybe? I don’t really have a good adjective. All I know is I’m graduating in May.

But yes! I decided I can write. Whether or not I can write well remains to be seen. My professors, friends, and family all say that I will one day give a voice to a generation but I doubt it because I can scarcely voice my feelings to the girl I have a crush on. Perhaps I’ll one day write the great American novel, but for now I’ll settle on telling a few stories of people I’ve met in places I’ll never go again. Because these are stories that need to be told so that more people can know and can take comfort in the fact that they are not alone and an untold number of strangers across this stupid country are going through the same thing at the same time. No, the names, places, and situations are not the same. But the stories are.

This, for all intents and purposes, is an autobiography. Though I never intended it to come out that way.

In fact when I first set out to put these words to paper it was out of necessity. It was written to satisfy a class project and to allow just a glimpse into a few days in a single year of a single individual out of the several billion which call Earth home. If nothing else, this project would serve as a written memory of my year. A diary of sorts. A firsthand account of over 23,000 miles on the road across just half the states in this nation. In theory, a noble idea. In reality? In reality, it has come to be so much more.

This is not a personal essay. This is not a travelogue. This is not a series of restaurant reviews or a dated pocket guide on where to go and when and what to do when you get there. Instead, this is a retelling of individuals and their humanity. Of their aspirations, dreams, fears, and struggles. This is a first-hand account of an American society which has largely failed those who I met along the way. This is for the misfits, the trailblazers, and the wandering souls. This is for everyone who feels lost, teetering on the edge. This is for the hopeful; the ones who show kindness in the face of hostility. This is, simply, for me. But I would love it if you joined.