I was thinking about how all my grand plans for life never worked out.

Before I was a writer, for example, I was a night owl. I played music in bars for a living. I thought I was going to be a musician forever. But evidently there was another plan.

Our band usually started at 9 p.m. And you played music until various persons on the dance floor began removing articles of underclothing and throwing them at the bass player. Which was often around 1 a.m.

Then, you’d pack your instruments and go home. You’d eat a breakfast consisting of one gas station burrito which predated the Carter administration, then creep into your bedroom, strip off your sweaty clothes, and crawl into bed beside your wife.

You slept until about noon.

When you awoke the house was empty, except for your dogs. Your wife had already left for work. You both worked different shifts. Like two semi-trucks passing in the night.

You’d stagger from your bedroom, hobble into the bathroom, and stare in the mirror. There was a huge, bloody gash on your nose.

How’d that get there?

Then you remembered. The night before, a 72-year-old woman had been overserved. She had approached the bandstand and asked whether she could give you a peck on the cheek. You said okay because you’re devastatingly nice guy.

So mid-song, she leaned in and bit your nose. Hard. Blood went everywhere. Before security escorted her away, the woman successfully managed to get the whole bar to sing “Sweet Caroline,” a cappella.

True story.

But now I’m a writer, which means I’m a morning person. I don’t play in bars anymore. Now, I only patronize them.

Each morning I wake up at fiveish. I sit on the porch, hot beverage in hand, and I watch the sunrise. I missed so many sunrises in my early career.

Most mornings, to wake myself up, I’ll sit outside, playing my grandfather’s fiddle. I play tunes quietly until feral cats emerge from the shadows, looking for their dying mother. Or sometimes I’ll play the banjo until a neighbor calls the cops.

Discussion question: How do you get a banjo player off your porch? Pay him for the pizza.

Fitness enthusiasts often stride past my house in the morning dew. They almost always ask whether I am playing a fiddle or a violin.

So I explain that they are the same instrument. The only difference between a fiddle and a violin is that nobody cares if you spill beer on a fiddle.

Then, once my fingers are warmed up, and my stomach is sour with caffeine, it’s time to write.

The laptop comes out, and my day begins.

And that’s where this letter is coming from. My porch.

I have been writing to you for over a decade. Every morning, I write. I’ve written from almost every state in the Union. I have written 38,000 feet above the earth.

I have written in the backseat of a Ford van. I have written in the hotel laundry room. I have written backstage at the Grand Ole Opry. From the ER waiting room. From the cashier line at Bucc-Ees.

I have no clue what I’m doing, mind you. I was not trained as a writer. I am a former night owl who squandered the first half of his life as a professional fool. And yet somehow, here I am. Writing to you. With a small scar on my nose.

I guess it’s true what they say. Man plans; God laughs.