Several years back, I was at a business conference in Chicago. Each night starting around 3ish, I would have some downtime. Two days into the trip, I’d already done all the Chicago things—boat tour, deep-dish pizza, visit Wrigley Field, etc. 

Sitting in the hotel lobby, flipping through those what-to-do-in-Chicago pamphlets, I notice men and women walking by wearing provocative Halloween costumes. Or so it seems. I put my head back into the pamphlet while laughing to myself, “Geez, Chicago is pretty freaky.” Not even thirty seconds later, I pick my head up again and notice more costumed people—it’s literally just one after the other streaming by. Now I’m thinking, “What the heck is going on?”…

Creative work is hard. Really hard. It’s emotional. It’s revealing. It’s time-consuming. It’s draining. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a song, album, movie, article, painting, or book. Whatever it is, it took way longer to create than it did to consume. I have immense appreciation for anyone who has the guts to do creative work and deliver it to the world. Who am I to say it sucks? That’s why I don’t. Not publically, anyway. I certainly have my opinions and preferences—have a drink with me, and you’re sure to hear plenty about both. I just don’t find negative criticism to be particularly useful. You might love something I think sucks. I don’t want to ruin it for you. This is why I choose to not publically add to the already enormous amount of people ready and willing to tell you a book sucks. I trust your ability to form your own opinion on whatever you’re reading. So what do I do?…

The lights strobe around me. The music bounces off my ears, reverberates in my heart, and shakes my body. I watch bottle after bottle of champagne pour out of the back room. Each one accompanied by sparklers, signs, and whatever else is supposed to make me feel special in that moment. Confetti falls from the ceiling, and club-goers wonder what we could possibly be celebrating. It’s a scene of pure excess. Pure emotion, really.

I’m surrounded by friends, women I don’t know, and the unmistakable feelings of lust and excitement. It’s easy to get lost in the moment. Too easy. And on that thought, my hand raises to signal for another round or three. Or four. I can’t lie: it feels great every time. Or let me correct that. It feels great every time—in the moment. 

But something happens after the moment…