A Brief Intermission: There is a Novel to Write

After a year and a half of publishing a new blog every Thursday, I've suddenly gone silent for three weeks. The reason? I've finally begun pursuing a dream I've carried since I was sixteen: writing a novel worthy of publication. After decades of teaching literature, encouraging future authors, and watching friends and former students achieve their own literary success, I've decided it's time to finish the story I've always wanted to tell. And what began as a single novel has grown into something far larger than I ever imagined.

After a lifetime of wanting to write a novel, I'm finally bringing my story to life, one chapter at a time.

October 22, 2026

For almost a year and a half, I've published a new blog post every Thursday. Some have offered advice to couples planning their weddings, others have explored the music and traditions that make those celebrations memorable, and still others have been personal reflections on nearly three decades of entertaining people. I've written about extraordinary couples, unforgettable moments, the occasional absurdity of the wedding industry, and just about anything else that struck me as worth discussing. I've enjoyed writing every one of those articles, and maintaining a consistent publishing schedule became something of a personal commitment. Until three weeks ago, I hadn't missed a Thursday. Then I missed one, followed by another, and then a third. If you've noticed my absence, there's a very good explanation. Ironically, the reason I haven't been writing my blog is that I've been doing an extraordinary amount of writing.

I'm writing a novel. And while that may sound like an unusual diversion for a wedding DJ, the truth is that writing has been an important part of my life for as long as I can remember. Long before I became a DJ, long before I became an English teacher, and certainly long before I began writing weekly articles about weddings, I considered myself a writer. I've written poetry, short fiction, essays, and all manner of other things over the years. Some of my poetry and short fiction have even been published, so the experience of sharing my writing with an audience isn't entirely new to me. What is new is the scale of what I'm attempting, and the realization that an ambition I've carried around for most of my life may finally be within reach. For the first time in decades, I'm doing something I've always wanted to do but somehow never managed to accomplish.

Believe it or not, I actually wrote my first novel when I was sixteen years old. Yes, an entire novel, written by a teenager who apparently possessed considerably more confidence than experience. Very few people have ever read it, and I intend to keep it that way. The manuscript remains safely hidden from the world, where it can do no harm to innocent readers or to whatever literary reputation I might someday develop. I suppose I should be proud that I had the determination to complete such an ambitious project at that age, and in some respects, I am. But there's a reason most writers don't rush to publish everything they created during adolescence. At sixteen, I had plenty of imagination, a great deal to say, and a rather limited understanding of the world. Some things are best appreciated as evidence of youthful enthusiasm rather than as contributions to American literature.

Nevertheless, writing that first novel planted a seed that never really disappeared. I wanted to write another one someday, something substantial, something carefully developed, and most importantly, something good enough that I wouldn't feel compelled to hide it from everyone I knew. I wanted to create characters that readers would care about, construct a story that would hold their attention, and produce a finished work that might actually deserve a place on a bookstore shelf. It became one of those ambitions that followed me through adulthood, occasionally moving to the forefront of my thoughts before retreating again beneath the demands of everyday life. I always believed I would get around to it eventually. Unfortunately, "eventually" has a remarkable tendency to remain just beyond reach when you don't make a conscious effort to pursue it.

For thirty years, I taught high school English, a profession that allowed me to spend much of my working life surrounded by literature. I introduced students to extraordinary authors, examined the techniques that made their writing effective, and encouraged young people to discover their own voices. I taught them how to develop ideas, construct narratives, create meaningful characters, and revise their work until it communicated what they intended. I loved teaching, and I loved sharing my enthusiasm for literature with my students. Yet there was always a certain irony in spending so much time discussing other people's accomplishments while knowing that I had an unfinished ambition of my own. I could explain why a novel succeeded, identify the choices that made a character memorable, and discuss the structure of a compelling narrative. What I couldn't do was point to a novel of my own that demonstrated I could put all those lessons into practice.

Of course, I had no shortage of excuses. I was teaching full-time, operating a wedding DJ business, raising a family, and attending to all the responsibilities that accompany adulthood. There were lesson plans to prepare, papers to grade, weddings to perform, clients to meet, and countless other demands on my time. Even when I managed to find a free evening, the prospect of sitting down to begin a project that might require years of effort was intimidating. Writing a novel isn't something you accomplish during an occasional spare hour unless you're prepared to sustain that effort over a very long period. It requires commitment, patience, and the willingness to keep working when the initial excitement has faded. I understood all of that intellectually. What I hadn't managed to do was translate that understanding into action.

Gail, meanwhile, had been encouraging me to write for years. She knew how much it meant to me, knew that I had the ability, and recognized that this was something I genuinely wanted to accomplish. Whenever the subject arose, she encouraged me to stop talking about writing a novel and actually write one. I would agree with her, explain that I intended to do exactly that, and then return to whatever immediate responsibility was demanding my attention. I suspect she eventually became accustomed to hearing about my literary ambitions without seeing much evidence that I was doing anything to pursue them. To her credit, she never stopped encouraging me. Having someone who believes in your abilities is a wonderful thing, even when you occasionally wish that person would stop reminding you of something you already know you ought to be doing.

Then my best friend, Dave, went and did precisely what I'd been talking about doing for years. He's a writer, too, and unlike me, he actually sat down and completed a full-length literary work. I was enormously proud of him. I knew how much effort such an undertaking required, and I admired the dedication it took to carry a project of that magnitude through to completion. There was something genuinely exciting about seeing someone I knew accomplish a goal that so many people talk about but relatively few actually achieve. At the same time, I would be less than truthful if I claimed that his accomplishment didn't provoke a rather uncomfortable degree of envy. Dave had done it. He had committed himself to the work, persevered through the challenges, and produced something tangible. I was still talking about what I hoped to accomplish someday.

For several years afterward, I found myself caught between admiration for his achievement and disappointment in my own lack of progress. I was proud of my friend, and nothing about my envy diminished that pride. But his success had removed one of the more convenient excuses I'd been making to myself. Writing a novel was no longer some abstract undertaking that existed only in my imagination. Someone close to me had demonstrated that it could be done. The difference between us wasn't that he possessed some mysterious opportunity unavailable to me. He had made the commitment and done the work. I hadn't. That's not an especially pleasant realization when you've spent much of your professional life encouraging other people to pursue their goals. I had become remarkably skilled at explaining the importance of discipline while struggling to apply that same discipline to one of my own deepest ambitions.

There was another source of inspiration, and perhaps an even greater source of irony, that came from my former students. Over the years, several of them have become writers themselves. Some have published poetry and short fiction, while others have gone on to write books that can be found on bookstore shelves across the country. A few have even secured contracts with major publishing houses, accomplishing something that I had dreamed of doing since I was a teenager. What made their success particularly meaningful was that many of them reached out to tell me that I had inspired them to write, that something about my classroom or my encouragement had helped them discover a passion they eventually turned into a career. As a teacher, I can scarcely imagine a more gratifying compliment. To know that I had played even a small role in helping a young person discover something that would become such an important part of their life was extraordinarily rewarding. But there was also an irony that wasn't lost on me. Here were students I'd taught years earlier, signing publishing contracts and seeing their work appear in bookstores, while I continued to tell myself that someday I would finally write a novel of my own. I was genuinely delighted by their achievements, and I wouldn't trade the satisfaction of having influenced them for anything. Nevertheless, there were moments when I couldn't help wondering how I'd managed to inspire so many other people to pursue a dream that I still hadn't found the discipline to pursue myself. They had listened to their English teacher, taken his encouragement seriously, and done the work. Perhaps it was time their English teacher started listening to himself.

When I retired from teaching in May 2025, I finally gained something I'd been telling myself I needed for decades: time. My DJ business remained busy, of course, and I had no intention of retiring from that. I still love entertaining at weddings, and being able to devote my full professional attention to the business has been tremendously rewarding. But I no longer had lesson plans waiting to be prepared, essays requiring grades, or the daily obligations of a classroom schedule. For the first time in my adult life, I had a degree of freedom that simply hadn't existed before. The excuses I'd relied upon for so many years were becoming increasingly difficult to justify. If writing a publishable novel really was one of the things I wanted to accomplish before I died, I was running out of reasons not to begin.

I should probably explain that writing a novel has never been a passing fancy or a recent addition to my list of things I'd like to try. It's been on my bucket list for most of my life. There are plenty of experiences I'd enjoy having, places I'd like to visit, and things I'd like to accomplish, but this particular ambition has always occupied a special place among them. I wanted to know whether I could take an idea that existed entirely in my imagination and develop it into a complete literary work. I wanted to experience the satisfaction of creating something substantial, something that required genuine effort and might eventually be enjoyed by people I'd never meet. More than anything, I wanted to stop wondering whether I could do it. At some point, the only meaningful way to answer that question is to sit down and begin writing.

And so, I began. The story I'm writing is called What Remains, a psychological thriller incorporating elements of horror, science fiction, political intrigue, and dystopian fiction. It's set in a near-future America, perhaps fifteen or twenty years from now, and explores what happens when ordinary people become entangled in extraordinary circumstances. There's a government conspiracy, some rather disturbing developments, and a collection of characters whose lives intersect in ways that none of them could have anticipated. But while the premise includes frightening and speculative elements, the story itself is fundamentally concerned with people. I'm interested in the decisions they make, the relationships they develop, the moral boundaries they're willing to cross, and the things that remain important when everything familiar has been taken away. I won't reveal much more than that for now, because I'd prefer that anyone who eventually reads the novel discover its world for themselves.

What I didn't anticipate was just how completely the story would take hold of my imagination. I began with a central premise and a relatively modest understanding of where the narrative might lead. As I developed the characters and explored the consequences of their decisions, however, the fictional world began expanding in directions I hadn't originally considered. New characters emerged, existing characters became more complicated, and events that initially seemed relatively straightforward revealed consequences that extended far beyond the immediate story. I began recognizing connections between seemingly unrelated developments, discovering opportunities for conflicts I hadn't anticipated, and imagining circumstances that would unfold much later in the narrative. Before long, I realized that I wasn't simply writing a novel. I was creating an entire fictional world, one whose possibilities were considerably greater than I had understood when I began.

That realization has been both exhilarating and intimidating. What I initially imagined as a single book has grown into a story that will require multiple novels to tell properly. The breadth and scope of the narrative have expanded to the point that attempting to contain everything within one volume would mean sacrificing much of what makes the story worth telling. I've already developed ideas and established circumstances whose consequences won't become apparent until much later in the series. There are characters whose individual journeys extend well beyond the events of the first book, and questions that I have no intention of answering prematurely simply to provide a convenient conclusion. I know where the larger story is ultimately headed, but getting there will require considerably more writing than I ever imagined when I first sat down at the computer. Apparently, after spending decades wanting to write one publishable novel, I've managed to give myself enough work to remain occupied for several books.

The actual process of writing has been an education in itself, which is a somewhat embarrassing admission from someone who spent thirty years teaching the subject. I've discovered how difficult it can be to maintain continuity across hundreds of pages, how much research is required to make fictional circumstances believable, and how frequently a seemingly minor detail can create problems several chapters later. I've spent hours studying maps, researching unfamiliar subjects, calculating travel times, and examining the practical consequences of decisions made by people who don't actually exist. I've rewritten conversations, reconsidered character motivations, and discovered that passages I initially thought were excellent weren't nearly as effective as I'd imagined. Perhaps most humbling of all, I've found myself repeatedly confronting the very advice I spent decades giving my students. Revision matters. Organization matters. Consistency matters. And no matter how pleased you might be with something you've written, there's a very good chance it can be improved.

I've also discovered that I genuinely love the work. Not merely the idea of being a novelist, or the possibility of eventually seeing my name on the cover of a book, but the actual experience of writing fiction. I enjoy developing characters, constructing scenes, exploring relationships, and finding ways to make the story unfold naturally. I enjoy the challenge of solving narrative problems and the satisfaction that comes when something I've been struggling with finally falls into place. I even enjoy much of the research, although I occasionally wonder what someone would think if they examined my search history without knowing I was writing a thriller. There are evenings when I begin working on the manuscript and suddenly realize that several hours have passed without my noticing. I've stayed up far later than I intended, returned to chapters I thought were finished, and spent an astonishing amount of time considering the lives of people who exist only because I invented them. After all these years, I've finally found the discipline I once envied in my friend Dave, although it sometimes feels less like discipline and more like an inability to leave the story alone.

Gail has been wonderfully supportive throughout the process, just as she was during all those years when writing a novel was something I talked about rather than something I actually did. I suspect she's pleased that I've finally taken her advice, although she may occasionally question whether she should have encouraged quite this level of enthusiasm. Writing has a way of consuming time that might otherwise be spent doing more practical things, and a complicated fictional problem can occupy my attention long after I've stepped away from the computer. Fortunately, she understands how important this project is to me. After years of encouraging me to pursue this particular dream, she's now watching me do exactly that. I hope that when the manuscript is finally complete, she'll feel some satisfaction in knowing that her persistence helped bring it into existence. I certainly will.

Of course, completing the manuscript is only the first step toward accomplishing the larger goal. I've always wanted to write a novel worthy of publication, and I intend to pursue traditional publishing once the first book is finished and thoroughly revised. I understand that the publishing industry is extraordinarily competitive, that literary agents and publishers receive far more submissions than they can possibly accept, and that even a well-written manuscript offers no guarantee of a publishing contract. There will be editing, cutting, polishing, and probably more rewriting than I currently care to contemplate. There may also be rejection, perhaps a considerable amount of it. None of that changes my intention to try. I've waited too many years to pursue this ambition to abandon it simply because the next stage might be difficult. Whether the book ultimately finds a publisher remains to be seen, but I intend to give it every reasonable opportunity.

Which brings me back to this blog, and the three Thursdays that have passed without a new article. I've enjoyed writing these weekly posts, and I appreciate everyone who has taken the time to read them. They've allowed me to share my experiences, offer advice, and connect with people beyond the weddings where we might ordinarily meet. But I've reached a point where I need to make a deliberate choice about how to spend my writing time. The novel has become too important to treat as something I'll work on only after every other writing obligation has been satisfied. For once in my life, I want to give this ambition the sustained attention it deserves, without repeatedly setting it aside because I've committed myself to producing something else on a particular day of the week. Consequently, I'm putting the blog on hold until I've completed the first book of What Remains. That doesn't mean I've lost interest in writing about weddings, and it certainly doesn't mean anything is changing with Mostov DJ Services. It simply means that, for the time being, my creative energy needs to be directed toward finishing the novel.

I don't know exactly when that will happen. The story has already grown far beyond my original expectations, and I'm not interested in rushing through the remaining chapters simply to meet a deadline I've arbitrarily imposed upon myself. I want to finish the book properly, take the time necessary to revise it, and eventually reach a point where I can look at the manuscript and feel that I've created something worthy of the ambition that inspired it. When that happens, I'll return to writing these blog posts, and I imagine I'll have plenty to say about the experience. In the meantime, I'll still be DJing weddings, officiating ceremonies, meeting wonderful couples, and doing all the things I've always done professionally. The only difference is that when I sit down to write, I'll be spending that time in a fictional world that has become considerably larger, more complicated, and more fascinating than I ever expected. After a lifetime of wanting to write a novel worth publishing, I'm finally doing the work necessary to make that happen. I think the blog can wait.

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