We all know the stories of people who seize their destiny, follow it at any cost — they do whatever it takes and overcome all obstacles. They know what they are meant to do.

This is a different kind of story.

In this story, a boy grows up on the outskirts of Mexico City, the son of Haitian exiles, and moves to the States halfway through high school. He hates school, takes awhile to make new friends, kinda fades into the background.

Some teachers point out that he’s a good writer, maybe he should think about pursuing it. But his dad’s a writer, a journalist, and he wants to be different. “I’m not doing that.” He considers fine art, does a year at Ringling College of Art and Design, drops out. Finds his way to photography, becomes a photojournalist (not so unlike dad, eh?). Spends a couple decades exploring the planet for major magazines and newspapers. Wins awards.

But secretly? He’s writing all the time. Drafts a novel, hates it, throws it out. Writes a story, sells it, never published. One day, he’s at a job fair, thinks he’ll be a teacher. Talks to some folks at Eckerd College. A week later, an email — ‘we’re offering scholarships’. Recently divorced, a 5-year-old to care for, and looking for … something, he goes back to school. Studies creative writing.

He writes a story, brings it to his first workshop, hopes high. They shred it. Devastated. Another one in the bin. Takes it as a challenge. Stays up all night for two weeks, writing, revising — going back to what he knows. Mexico.

This time? Silence. It’s perfect. Everything clicks. “I’ve figured it out.” Wins an Honorable Mention from The Atlantic — thought the announcement was a bill, almost threw it out.

And so Phillippe Diederich embraces his destiny. “I came to this epiphany late.”

Now? Four novels under his belt, countless short stories, multiple awards and grants (even a PEN fellowship), a TEDx talk. In his work, he’s still traveling, still observing, still looking for home. Writing is the balm of exile.

Only recently, in his Sarasota home, has he been able to think about Haiti, being Haitian. Surrounded by wealthy students in Mexico City or hiding in a Miami library, hearing stories of refugees on rafts, “it was embarrassing as hell.” These days, he’s reading. He learns the glorious history, culture of Haiti, before Duvalier, before earthquakes. How enslaved people freed themselves. Established the first independent nation in the Caribbean. “Now I’m proud.”

This is what books can do, Diederich realizes. “To see where you come from, to see what is possible for you.” He wants to write for kids like him. Who don’t fit. Who don’t win or lose, aren’t good or bad. In the middle. Wants to make sure they’re seen. Heard. “I can go back to childhood.” To bullies. To mischief. “We were feral.”

His life, now, as a writer? “Complete disaster. Organized chaos.” Writes two books at once, always hedging his bets, never sure which one will work. He creates characters, listens to them, gets to know them. Waits. Creates problems, sits back, lets the characters solve them. “What would you do?” he asks them.

The photography is still there. He’s a visual writer. Scenery’s easy. “The internal? That’s hard.” Hemingway helps — The Old Man and the Sea. All internal.

“It’s masochistic. It’s terrible. I hate writing. But finishing? It’s gratifying. Getting an email from a reader, asking about a character like they’re real. I take a lot of pride in that.”

Books transport you. Invite you to adventure. Open a door. See how people live, how they’re forced to make choices. Gain perspective. Reading makes you a better person.

“This is what a book is for me.”