Once upon a time there was a writer named Mike. While growing up, he wrote silly things at first in his high school English class. He wrote about his left shoe, about shrinking down to six inches and getting chased by a cat. Only that story was a dream you see.

He grew older and later told more stories for his college newspaper, that took place on cold Saturday afternoons in stadiums full of screaming people. His characters always gave “110 percent” and took it “one game at a time.”

Telling stories must have made him more attractive, because of the beautiful lady he met one day.

“Come with me,” he told her. “I will write these stories and somebody will pay me some day. I will make you rich and famous.”

The beautiful lady must have been blind in one eye, because she agreed to marry him after much anguish in her soul.

While he eventually wrote stories about sewer rates and school board meetings, she gave forth five beautiful children. He received lots of comments about his stories, especially from people who called him names and yelled at him some times. But he never got rich or famous.

Many years later, along came something wonderful and new: The Internet and blogs.

Mike could tell his stories again, the kind he wanted to tell. People would come from all over, from all walks of life to read them, he thought in his mind. They would carry satchels full of money to give to him.Famous television hosts named Conan and Dave would stand there, begging Mike to come on their shows. For once, he could be known for doing something right, for making a difference.

Those were his dreams and the Internet could help make them happen.

So he told his stories again, mostly about his kids. He told about the special moments, lessons and times when he didn’t look so good as a father.

It’s been more than 20 years since Mike started telling stories. He’s still not rich or famous. He’s yet to go on a book tour or sign an endorsement deal.

Mike thought it was another sign that he would never be good at anything. Then it hit him. He thought about the lady in bed with a difficult pregnancy, how she said his stories helped her get through a difficult time. People he’s never met read his blog every week. Some say they smile or even laugh. At rare times, they even cry.

Now he doesn’t worry about getting rich or famous these days. Sure, he will keep writing. But he would rather be a good dad and a good husband.

And if a stranger stops him in the store to thank him for his stories or to talk about his family, then that’s OK, too.

The End