Let the Readers Feel the Fight

The Sedona Room is my writing oasis.

An artist hand-painted a sunrise over Cathedral Rock in Sedona across the walls and ceiling, wrapping the room in warm desert hues. The reds, oranges, blues, and purples stretch across the sky, giving me the feeling of being immersed in nature while still sitting comfortably inside the air conditioning, my feet kicked up on my adjustable couch. This is where I go to write, where ideas come to life, where I wrestle with words and memories, shaping them into something worth reading.

It was Christmas night. Jocelyn and I had just finished dinner, still sitting around the table, letting the warmth of the meal and the conversation linger. That’s when our 17-year-old son, Mason, brought up the idea of helping us rewrite The Dog Story. His reasoning was straightforward: having a writing credit on a published book would strengthen his college admissions chances. We thought it was a good idea, but what he didn’t expect was how much he was going to like the book.

Later that night, as Jocelyn and I were getting ready for bed, Mason burst into our room, unannounced. His face was lit up with excitement. “The intro through the hospital scenes—amazing,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “I wasn’t expecting it to be this good.”

We were taken aback. Mason is sharp and analytical—speech and debate has honed his ability to dissect arguments and narratives with surgical precision. He wants to be a lawyer. Critical thinking is his superpower. We were bracing for constructive criticism, not outright praise. But he was hooked. He disappeared back into his room to keep reading.

The next morning, still riding the confidence boost from Mason’s feedback, I dove into writing my literary agent pitches. I spent the entire day crafting and refining, tailoring each submission with precision and strategy. By evening, feeling good about my work, Jocelyn and I settled into the Sedona Room to review my pitches together.

Then Mason burst in again, fired up.

“You spent all this time building these really well-thought-out characters. You put all this rich sensory detail into the hospital experience—then you race to the end.” He shook his head. “Let the readers feel the fight.”

I looked up from my laptop. “What?”

He was fired up. “You spent all this time building these really well-thought-out characters. You put all this rich sensory detail into the hospital experience—then you race to the end. Why would you do that to the readers?”

I set my laptop aside, giving him my full attention. “Go on.”

He took a breath, collecting his thoughts, then dove back in. “You put on a brave face and speed to happily ever after. That’s not fair to the people reading this. They need to feel the fight. You don’t just walk again. You had to battle for it. Show that struggle. Share the trauma. Make people care about what you went through.”

He wasn’t wrong.

In the first draft, I had skimmed over the hardest part. The recovery. The reality of it. The fight to regain my ability to walk. The frustration, the fear, the moments when I doubted I’d ever be the same again. Mason saw through it. He challenged me to dig deeper, to make it real. To let the readers feel every ounce of what I had gone through instead of giving them the polished, abbreviated version.

His feedback pushed me to expand the story, adding in pivotal scenes like the USS Cole flashback—moments that revealed the deeper battles of resilience and survival. Because of him, I revisited and enriched the narrative, making it more immersive and true to the struggle.

I sat back, considering his words. My instinct was to protect the reader—to not burden them with the full weight of my experience. But he was right. I wasn’t honoring the journey if I held back. The Dog Story wasn’t about glossing over the hard parts. It was about resilience. And resilience only matters when you understand what it took to get there.

Mason’s challenge changed the way I approached the rewrite. I went back and opened up the wounds I had previously tried to bandage too quickly. I let the story breathe in the pain, the struggle, the raw moments of doubt and determination. Because he was right—if I wanted readers to care, I had to let them in.

Sometimes, it takes fresh eyes to see what we’ve been avoiding.

Sometimes, it takes a 17-year-old to tell you to let the readers feel the fight.

This rewrite wasn’t just about strengthening the book—it was about honoring the fight. And thanks to Mason, I finally did.

Mason more than earned his writing credit.