From Kerouac to Eggrolls: My Book Just Got Into the Library!
On giving back and cultivating community IRL.
Dear Readers,
Many of my posts focus on pushing through despite the odds—those uphill sprints in the marathon of life, and how to keep moving forward as you climb. It is the Rocky theme, Balboa in old gray sweats, fighting to stay in the ring. Hard work, relentless dreams, sleepless nights—when do we pause to count the wins when so much feels intangible?
I’ll admit, sometimes I get too romantic about The Struggle Bus Chronicles. But every now and then, we get a win. So when do you celebrate?
The answer?
When you get one!
*** DRUM ROLL PLEASE ***
…Suddenly, a velvet curtain drops into view, and a stage atomizes in front of you. Old halogen light fixtures blink to life, wooden planks snap into place, and heavy golden ropes pull the red curtain open with a dramatic flourish.
ShhTUCK! Bzzzzzt— A vintage spotlight flares behind you as you settle into your seat. A tuxedoed monkey delivers your popcorn. You tip him. Everyone tips him. With a spin and a grin, he waves and leaps back into the shadows. (Once, someone didn’t tip the monkey. The popcorn turned into thumbtacks.)
Without delay, a handsome man in regal clownwear strides center stage. A bright white frilly shirt, flattened by a vest, then overlayed with a traditional red velvet swallowtail coat. His mustache quivers as he takes a cartoonishly deep breath and booms:
“LADIES, GENTLEMEN, AND ALL CURIOUS, BEAUTIFUL SHADES OF HUMANKIND! PREEEESENTING, THE REIGNING—DEFENDING— Hm? Wrong speech—ah, here we go— WITH GREAT ADMIRATION AND GOOD WILL… THE ONE-SENTENCE EMAIL!…”
A scroll materializes in his white-gloved hands, golden sprinkles cascading as he unfurls it.
“AHEM…!”
The monkey puts a finger up to shush the audience.
“..IT IS WITH THE DELIGHT OF THE GREAT WRITTEN, HALLOWED BE THEIR NAMES THAT I, YOU, WE— wait, allergy season —RIGHT! right RIGHT! —OUR EMAIL— IN ALL ITS GLORY, —READITH AS FOLLOWITH—…
—-“Thanks so much for your email! I'd love to have your book in the library.” - Lowell Public Library
The theater ERUPTS. Applause roars like a stadium as the crowd loses their minds.
The Master of Ceremony Clown bows, winks, and exits stage left with a confident Job DONE stride. The curtains close.
What the Lowell Public Library Means to Me
Welcome back, friends. That’s how this all played out in my mind—hope you enjoyed the show.
A quick primer on the Lowell Public Library (LPL): Founded in 1844, it’s one of the oldest libraries in America at 181 years of age. The building has seen renovations, but it’s Renaissance Revival-style entrance remains timeless. (Fun aside: Wasn’t da Vinci the original Renaissance man? As a self-proclaimed Johnny of All Trades, I could riff on that—but back to the LPL…)
To most, it’s a cornerstone of Lowell’s history. To me, it was just the cool building I’d sometimes stop by after school. For some friends, it was a refuge, a place to get lost in books, or rent DVD’s, CD’s and even manga at one point. Now, my own book joins its shelves—a thought that was inconceivable to 14-year-old Johnny. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine my voice occupying that space.
The weight of that is just now hitting me.
A Note to Underrepresented Creators
(Or: "The Sound System Was Never Ours")
I want to speak directly to those of us from immigrant families, to voices whose decibel levels are quieter because the room belongs to those who bought the microphone. The ones who’ve had to sing in unison while a few names echo across the planet, etched into digital time forever. If you’ve ever felt your voice wasn’t heard—or worse, that it didn’t matter—then welcome. This is where we share a stage. It matters, Earth is the biggest open mic ever made.
Underrepresented stories haven’t traditionally lined the halls of institutions like this. I’m speaking broadly here: the children of immigrants, the not-1%, the marginalized, the disenfranchised. You know who you are, you have been watching on the edges in the corners of the bar. Your great-grandparents might’ve built railroads, dug canals, laid bricks, or your ancestors tilled fields, or carved stones for temples—but their words? Rarely made it to print, only lived on through the food, stories and traditions passed down during the holidays.
Speaking to my little corner of the unheard, I’m no academic, but I’d wager Southeast Asian stories—especially non-academic ones—are still scarce on the global shelves.
Honestly, I never framed it this way before. Then again, I’d never written a book that would be formally inducted into a 181 year old library. That’s wild.
Identity in Eight Crayons (And Why That’s Bullshit)
I was raised American; that’s always been my primary identity. But out in the wild, people see me as some kind of Asian—although, my racial ambiguity has led to Indian and Mexican grandmothers muttering requests at me in their native tongues (usually: Can you grab that thing off the top shelf?). Then I open my mouth, and—oh. Very American.
Zooming out, I wonder: Do I look like an Asian American writer? Scratch that—a Laotian-American writer? The labels get narrower, but the nuance matters. Hot take: The American education system I grew up in reduces cultural identity to a box of eight crayons, when the truth is an infinite spectrum of shades and stories.
To the next Lao-American teen scribbling in a notebook: Kid, I see you. I’m here if you need me.
“You know what I want to think of myself? As a human being. Because, I mean, I don’t want to sound like Confucius, but under the sky, under the heavens, there is but one family. It just so happens that people are different.” Bruce Lee. 1971
Libraries, Platforms, and Playing with the Big Kids
Libraries, like many institutions, have long felt homogenous. Freedom of speech is foundational here, but not everyone gets the platform. We’re allowed to paint the walls, but our words rarely hang in these halls. Yet things are changing, even if it seems like some things might be a bit backwards in some areas.
In any case, to have my book accepted into this collection makes me feel seen, valued—like I’ve been invited to play with the big kids. And they’re asking me what game we should play next. Surreal.
Full Circle in Lowell
Seventeen-year-old Johnny, in his unchecked hubris, would’ve shrugged and said, Yeah, I’ll do that one day. Teenage delusion is a powerful thing.
And yet—here we are. Seventeen years later, in the not-delusion part of this reality. (Aging is so real.)
Is it weird to say I’m proud? Look at it go! Some artists chase the Venice Biennale; writers dream of the Mark Twain Prize; musicians lust after platinum plaques. Me? I’m over the moon about a one-sentence acceptance email. (Also, this gives me an excuse to finally get a library card again—though I hope 18-year-old Johnny didn’t leave overdue fines…)
Between SaiTera, this Substack, and the daily hustle, I’ve kept this little project alive in the background. Since its release in September 2024, SoupfromBones has stumbled into unexpected places—Thailand, Canada, Mexico, India—like it’s living a life of its own. My book isn’t revolutionary, but it’s mine. Flaws and all, I’m proud it exists.
Fame? Fortune? Not the goal (though if some exec wants to slide me a $50M deal… have your people call my monkey. I’m the monkey). I wanted to tell my story because I felt like it was worth sharing. Now it’s out there, walking on its own, maybe nudging others to dust off the dreams they’ve tucked away.
And now, it’s on a shelf at the Lowell Public Library.
Why This Matters
I’m a Lowell-raised, Lao-American author, and this milestone means more to me than virality or a million-dollar deal. My words will be inducted into the literary zeitgeist and share space with the renowned author and local legend Jack Kerouac.
For those unfamiliar, Kerouac’s On The Road is a story of train travel across America in the 1950s—encounters, wanderlust, freedom. It mirrors his own journey from Massachusetts to California in the 50s that would inspire me to do the same in 2020.
Mr. Kerouac was born 1922, in Lowell, Ma. His parents were French Canadian and he didn’t learn English until he started school. As he grew up he had a longing for the past “la nostalgie” traveling through and discovering new places and stories.
His original manuscript for On the Road was written on a 120-foot scroll. I saw that scroll in 2007, as a 17-year-old high schooler. I remember thinking that the thing had energy and felt like some kind of magic scroll. It was a small moment that is lodged in my memory and sparked the idea “how cool would it be to one day travel the country by train?”
Train Roll On…Down The Line…
Fast forward and in 2020, the world was on pause but my spirt was on fire. The fabric of reality starts to show its connective tissue when I ask my step-father if I should travel by train to follow my dreams. He is, Lowell born and raised and his roots are you guessed it, French-Canadian. Yes, like Mr. Kerouac, I was raised by a French-Canadian American. After the fame of On the Road, he sought more ideas of spirituality and meaning in the world which led him to writing Dharma Bum.
Dharma Bums…is something I have just found, like right now and I need to really dive into the material because I had no idea of its existence. At a quick glance, its a book about how the Beatnik culture was meeting Buddhism for the first time. We are talking 1950-60 hippy culture beginning to take shape in the world. It would inspire the idea of the Seeker as Nomad, and help redefine meaning in a world at the cusp of over-consumerism. Truthfully, I never read this book and I’m told there’s a scene where he meditates on a mountain top in California. By coincidence or magic, at the end of my train ride across the country, I do end up at the top of a mountain in Alaska contemplating my life and what this all means. I also would eventually wander the Earth to Laos and India asking questions about Buddhism and spirituality along the way meeting so many free-spirted artists, writers, dancers, performers, fire-spinners, and story tellers. It might not be new but to understand the context of what I am doing in the world is a powerful thing.
As I might have mentioned before, nothing exists in a vacuum but this, starts to feel incredible on par and on brand. I used to joke that one of my patron saints for the writing nomad chef, travel life is Jack Kerouac. I can go further in and talk about the Laotian / French / American connection but I think that’s best set for another time. Additionally, the other patron saint would be Anthony Bourdain, who also has Massachusetts roots, and I can, and have written about that man and his impact on my work so well save that for another write-up.
The point is, there’s something I am tapping into and I am apart of a legacy of Wandering American Writers. Better, I feel seen and invited by their spirits, I have heard their whispers on the road and in parts unknown knowing full well I am simply soup from bones. I don’t have the words to tell you how I harbor this cosmic honor deep in my soul. I know that I am witnessing an unfolding of pieces over time and its a real privilege to watch this all play out.
…And so I did take that train ride in 2020, and it changed my life. And the box of crayons exploded into a thousand colored pencils. And the sheer amount of ideas, stories, and views went by faster than any train ride could capture. Yet in the sheer overwhelming velocity of existence I did learn to stop and savor. I took life and framed its preciousness with my body, through all my senses. As though my body was a camera and life itself became my subject.
A Final Note to Storytellers
But back to the the thing - MY BOOK IS IN A LIBRARY!
Libraries are often called 'dying institutions,' but I think they’re being reborn—needed more now than ever. I heard some even loan out power tools now. How cool is that? They’re havens where stories breathe, where words are safeguarded like sacred texts. History shows it: Oppressors target libraries first because without a place to store our legends and stories we may lose culture and meaning. All of our innovations and stories are built upon the shoulders of a massive effort of every single person alive and has come before us. If the internet ever vanished, libraries would be all we’d have left. Losing them would set us back decades—centuries, even. The way I see it, if you’re a writer, the library is your temple. So I think its important to visit and give back now and then if you can. I don’t even mean monetarily either, there’s so much we can do for each other when we start asking how can we help?
In summary, sometimes, it’s not about the NYT list, that may give a wide reach—but it’s also about the kid down the street who finds your book and thinks, Hey, I could do this too, and maybe that’s enough to keep all our stories going. Sure does keep me going.
With a library card and a full heart,
Johnny
P.S. If you are in town, please stay tuned for the library book signing. Mom’s eggrolls will be there, for the internationals, digital folks, I’ll post the family recipe and pictures from the book signing soon!
P.S.S. Thank you so much to the Lowell Public Library for being a space for my voice. Your 181 years of history is a powerful place for my book and I hope my writing can help some kid some day looking for some inspiration.
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time,
the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars…”— Jack Kerouac, On the Road, Part One, Chapter One
First published: 1957 by Viking Press
If this story resonated, forward it to a fellow dreamer or someone who needs a reminder that they, too, belong on the shelf.
If you would like to support my work you can always subscribe here or if you’d like to purchase a copy of my book — shoot me a message and well figure out what works best for you! OK, thanks, love ya, bye - Johnny
Congratulations Johnny! This is so awesome.