I should have been utterly dispirited when the literary agent I approached for representation of the book I was working on told me that she wouldn’t read any personal essays I wrote because I am not Thomas Friedman. I wasn’t, however, for two reasons. First, I knew from her mention of Friedman’s name that she had great taste. I admired her for that. Second, unbeknownst to her, she was steering me away from a path that someone else had already advised me not to take.

I became aware after living in America for a few years that I had quite a few thoughts that I wanted to examine. And the best way I could do so, I realized, was to write in long form. As I thought about the project, it became increasingly clear that it would have to be in the form of a memoir. But that was something I adamantly didn’t want to do. The decision to write a memoir, especially a deeply personal type, is one that most people make with a great degree of trepidation. It was the case with me. There are a little over 8 billion people in the world. It felt quite pretentious that a nonentity like me should write something about himself and his life for others to read.

Teaching in the K-12 public school system for two years immediately after my arrival in America had been a transformational experience for me. It stirred the many questions that I wanted to explore in writing. After agonizing over the decision for a considerable period of time, I realized that there was no way I could effectively discuss the subjects I had in mind without introducing at least some measure of personal background material to use as a basis. Ultimately, I settled on a format that I thought was a reasonable compromise. I decided to write a series of essays touching on a variety of topics, interspersed with chapters that would include minimal amounts of my biographical information.

Before diving into the project, I had some initial conversations with an editor who I was going to hire. Based on the bits and pieces of information I shared with him, he thought that I had some interesting things to say. He also found the format of essays mixed in with personal narrative intriguing. He asked me for some writing samples, which I provided to him. To my great relief, he found them good enough to make him decide to sign on to the project.

I then proceeded to make a monumental mistake that I would advise any aspiring author to avoid, if at all possible. I spent the next several months writing a complete manuscript. It turned out to be approximately 100,000 words. A typical book-length manuscript falls anywhere between 80,000 to 120,000 words. The top end of that range tends to make books a bit too long, discouraging the average reader. The ideal limit is between 90,000 to 100,000. What I really should have done was to send a few chapters at a time to the editor for his review before moving on to the next set.

Quite self-satisfied with what I had written, I sent the manuscript to him and then waited patiently for several weeks while he read it. When he finally returned it to me, I was expecting to see some light editing and a “pat-on-the-back” note. I had absolutely no idea what was coming.

The editor had indeed made some corrections, but he attached a separate written review in which he described the manuscript as largely garbage. He didn’t use that strong language exactly but essentially, that was his opinion. I was quite furious. I wasn’t sure though whom the anger was supposed to be directed at, me or him.

It took me several hours to regain my composure, after which I realized that I had overestimated my ability to accomplish my objective with the format that I had chosen. The editor’s main view was that the snippets of personal stories I told were more compelling, and he advised me to focus on that and turn the book into a conventional memoir. It was absolutely what I didn’t want to hear.

I have, since childhood, always been a reserved person. My preference generally is to stay out of public view as much as I can. The discomfort with making my entire life an open book aside, the bigger problem for me was that I was going to have to write a whole new manuscript from scratch. As any author would attest, that is an utterly horrible situation to find oneself in.

It was in that mental state that I placed a call to the literary agent. A new acquaintance, an author himself, had introduced me to her. The agent first asked me to give her a brief description of what my book was about. After providing that information, I told her about the format I had intended to employ, hoping desperately that she would show enthusiasm for it. If I got lucky and she did, I would either work with her on the manuscript I already had, or if necessary, find a new editor. She would then simply represent the work—shopping the manuscript with publishing houses.

I had no luck. It was on that call that she told me that she doesn’t read personal essays unless they are written by Thomas Friedman. What she said seemed to validate my editor’s view that I was better off sticking to something simple and straightforward. Although I saw the writing on the wall, her words had rubbed salt into my wound that was still quite raw.

For anyone who isn’t familiar with him, Thomas Friedman is a world-renowned journalist, author, and columnist at the New York Times. A three-time winner of the prestigious Pulitzer Prize, he is one of the most well-traveled, well-read and perceptive reporters alive. Whenever I come across an article or essay written by him, I stop whatever I am doing and read it. His expertise on the Middle East, in particular, is unparalleled. That is why I admired the literary agent when she said she was a huge fan of Friedman.

My first editor told me that he wasn’t the right person to work with on a memoir. Until then, I had no idea that there were editorial specialties. What I actually needed was a developmental editor. They direct authors on how to craft stories. My daughter found a great one for me from her alma mater’s alumni database.

Thankfully, I was able to salvage parts of the junk manuscript. I sent the new editor a rough outline of the project. Together, we spent the next two years working on what ultimately became The Boy from Boadua. It was the most enjoyable writing experience I have had in my life. I was able to sneak in brief parts of the sociological and philosophical discussions from the essays I had written. In the final chapter, the longest in the book, I condensed several more of those thoughts.

The new manuscript we produced was even longer—about 128,000 words. We both knew that it was too long for most publishers and so we needed to proceed to the next step of whittling it down. The problem was that we couldn’t do it. We had spent so much time meticulously crafting and refining the story that anything we took out would feel like getting rid of a prized possession. We decided that it would be best for me to hire a third editor to bring a fresh pair of impartial eyes to it.

Again, with my daughter’s help, I found an excellent one. The new editor took a scalpel to the manuscript, and I made sure not to look while she was doing the “amputation.” At the end of that surgery, we were down to about 96,000 words.

In the two years since the book was published, I have been completely surprised by the number of people who have reached out to me from all over the world to tell me about the impact that my story, the way I told it, and the lessons I shared, have had on them. Disadvantaged children, like the ones I taught in the K-12 public school system, were the people I had in mind when I decided to write the book. Readers have told me on numerous occasions that my memoir is not only applicable to children, but to a universal audience. I was quite flabbergasted when I began receiving invitations to speak to members of the U.S. military, of all institutions. It took enormous effort and some great pain to do the project, but the joy of seeing it appeal to so many people in such a positive way has been beyond rewarding.

This writing journey began with the goal of sharing some life lessons with others, but along the way, I ended up learning two massively important new ones for my own benefit. First, I now know how crucial it is to seek and embrace constructive feedback. Most of us tend to be a bit too sure of the things we say and do, but it is extremely necessary to pause every once in a while and take appraisal by listening to the ideas of trusted voices. I have also realized that quite often, the things we don’t like to hear are actually what we need to pay the most attention to.

My first editor’s opinion sounded quite harsh and extremely unpleasant to my ears when I first read it. It took me a while to process it the right way, but it was a great gift. He played a vital role in steering me on to what ended up being the right pathway. I sent him a signed copy of the book after it was published and added a heartfelt thank you note. He tremendously enjoyed reading the book. It was exactly what he thought I should write. He later wrote one of the most glowing reader reviews for it.

The second and equally important lesson I learned is that we should never underestimate the difference that we can make in other people’s lives with our words. I have never been an arrogant person, but audacity is something that I have had in bundles since I was a young boy. Perhaps it was that daring that made me overestimate my ability to tackle the project in the format I had envisioned originally. But it also turned out that I was massively underrating the power of my story.

I had always considered myself a nobody. Today, we live in a rather confused world in which we are all constantly searching for guidance and answers to some of our most vexing problems—both personal and societal. With a few readers describing the Boy from Boadua as a leadership book, it gives me great pleasure that through that humble memoir, I have been able to contribute at least a few helpful thoughts to inspire people—both young and old.