Ten years ago, I wrote a book. It’s under my bed.

It’s not a traditional novel and doesn’t fit well into any specific genre. It’s a little bit adventure story, parody, graphic novel, journal and random jokes all written long-hand (because it’s part graphic novel, remember) on sketch paper.

It’s about 100 to 150 pages, I think. And it’s not finished. In its current state, it’s more of a blueprint for a novel — a detailed outline of a something bigger and more robust.

I haven’t looked at it in about five years, maybe longer.

I was proud of it when I first wrote it. I even told friends and family members that I “was working on a novel.” And that’s crazy for me. I never talk about my work with family. It’s weird. Saying I’m working on a novel is as pretentious as saying, “I’m working on a sculpture,” or “I saw Hamilton when Lin Manuel was still staring in it.”

I had visions of presenting this book to a room full of media executives from Disney, Warner Brothers, Apple, Kraft and maybe even Gillette. I would print out the pages on big paper and mount them to black cardstock and use a pointer to walk the executives through the story. They wouldn’t get it at first, but by the end of the meeting, everyone would be laughing and cheering and there’d be free bagels and a pitcher of ice water that no one uses.

Then there would be a bidding war for this masterpiece!

It would be published a year before the movie version was released. The film franchise would spawn a spin-off television series and a line of action figures and board games and soups with my characters as the noodles.

I would do the talk show rounds, explaining, “I don’t really know where my ideas come from,” and, “Working with Will Ferrell was a dream.”

There would be book sequels, of course. And then I’d hand off the writing duties to a young writer while I pursue other projects. But those projects would all crumble and I’d begin to resent the young writer who is now playing God with characters I created in a world once mine.

There’d be angry emails and phone calls and leaks to the press. Who does this guy think he is? There’d be a lawsuit over the rights of the intellectual property, but it’d be settled out of court leaving no parties truly happy. All bridges burnt.

I’d begin saying horrible things about people I once loved and my beliefs would become more and more radical with each passing year. Most Tweets begin with “And another thing…,” and I’d spend my days standing near my books in a bookstore, telling customers, “You know who I am?”

I’d see what drugs tasted like. Surely these narcotics would help generate new ideas for more books and movies! I’d go missing for months only to show up at an airport with a black eye and a limp. Security would ask where I was heading and I’d say, “They can trace your shoes. You know that, right? That’s how they follow you. They follow the footsteps. Footsteps don’t lie — they multiply.”

I’d be taken away.

A few years later I’d be better. Not quite the same, but better.

I would lie and say the book/movie series is being rebooted and the internet would go crazy with speculation…even if I made it all up.

But the lie becomes true!

There’s renewed interest in the work! A new movie is actually planned! The company that owns the rights to the books pays me a small amount so that I don’t cause trouble. I have to sign a lot of papers, but it’s okay. I’m just glad the characters are is in the hands of someone who wants to tell a quality story. This is the comeback!

The reboot flops and I go missing again. I’m presumed dead after twenty years. But then I show up at my own funeral!

There’s another reboot.

And then I fade away from the spotlight and retire in Florida where I spend most days playing Mario Kart at an old age home.

Where was I?

Oh yeah…so I haven’t looked at the book in years.

I shopped it around to a few agents and publishers and got some wonderful rejections letters. Then I stashed the book under my bed, where it lives now in an unmarked brown folder with a Velcro latch.

I’m sure if I read through the book now, I’ll hate it. All of it.

Still…maybe I should dust it off. Give it a quick edit. Maybe add another hundred pages? Turn it into something else? Something big!

Because there’s a chance I’ll rework this book into something grand and wonderful, I can’t share much of the details. I will show you this one page.

This is pure gold!