During one summer a long long time ago, I picked up a copy of The Brothers Karamazov, by Fyodor Dostoevsky. At the time, I was weirdly preoccupied with the Big Questions – what is the meaning of life, what am I doing here, and is there really a god?
The third question, in particular, was something I thought a lot about, as I had been a churchgoer ever since I could remember. This book, written by some guy in Russia a couple of hundred years ago, took me on a 700 page journey; which, strangely enough, helped me grapple with that third question in a way no pastor or sermon ever could.
That was the summer I learned the true power of books. They can cross oceans and centuries. They can change a confused teenager’s perspective on Things.
That is why, when anyone ever asks, I say that I’ve always wanted to write a book; in hopes that one day in the distant future, a confused teenager riddled with existential angst might pick it up and feel like he understood the world a little bit better.