I Febrezed My Dog

In my early twenties, I published a book of short stories called I Febrezed My Dog. In the words of my younger self, the book contained 43 stories about love, life and uncertainty.

In the words of others:

Quite an unusual book, a series of ramblings on life. Strangely interesting at times.

At times I felt like he was rambling and there was no depth to the stories he put forward, other times he went very deep and I had to wonder if I was reading the same book. Overall, it was an insightful read.

Those are two reviews that you could find on Goodreads.

Both people gave it a 3 star rating, and I have to say: I’ll take that.

I think about the book now and wonder why I ever published it. I’ve reread the stories, and, honestly, I cringe. But I suppose that’s part of life. Sometimes, we look back on things we did years ago and see them through a different lens – with a bit of embarrassment, self-consciousness, and even disbelief.

It Opened Doors

Interestingly, despite how I feel about the book now, writing it helped open a few doors. It played a part in helping me land my first advertising job as a copywriter. Then later, and even more surprisingly, it helped me secure a role as an assistant writer for the book Lucky by Design. On both occasions, my employers-to-be saw something in my writing that convinced them to give me a chance.

And that’s one of the things about publishing a book (or any kind of content): you don’t know who’s going to read it; what they’re going to think of it; and by extension, what they’re going to think of you. For better or worse, I hadn’t really considered at the time just how much published work is truly… public.

Reactivation

Despite the doors the book opened for me, I eventually felt that I no longer wanted it out there. It’s funny: at a time when social media was increasingly leaning into oversharing, I was moving in the opposite direction. Ultimately, I decided to unlist the book from all digital platforms. Until now.

Perhaps the turnaround in how I feel is simply down to time. Enough of it has passed that I no longer feel like the person who wrote that book. What once felt like exposing too much of myself now feels like looking at an earlier version of me—a snapshot of who I was at that point in my life. After cutting the overly rambly parts and the outdated humour, what remains is a condensed version of the book I originally released.