I finished it, and of course I had to have someone read it, and who better than those close to me; my father, whose face seemed to always be covered by a book as I grew up, and my wife, my most honest and harshest critic.
I knew I had a few things that were done so well, I was actually willing to live with them. I dared think I nailed it on the first try, forgetting one of the most important lessons in writing:
"There's no such thing as good writing, there's only good rewriting."
Okay, no problem, I'm sure I'd be tweaking and polishing the novel to its best luster. After all, I just nailed an almost 500 page novel that some of my readers claimed were unable to put down, and read the entire thing in less than two days! Those of you who did that, and you know who you are, I'm still stunned. Even a bit crestfallen as it took me almost a year to write it. Ha! The nerve!
I handed my book THE GAZE to some of my readers and the look on their face upon seeing the thick volume was priceless. It also made me think that the next novel ought to be a little friendlier, and I set a goal in mind of staying under 400 pages.
After all, I'd just read John W. Huffman's "A Wayward Wind" and this wonderful story doesn't even break 350 pages. It was possible then, or so I thought.
As my page count reached 340, I realized I was only halfway done and like a complete (your own expletive here), I crammed each page from that point on. Still, I felt I pulled it off.
No, I didn't.
My father wasted no time in showing me the error of my ways. In a tough, yet gentle way I'm very familiar with, he made some not so flattering comparisons of my new manuscript to certain other, um... shows out there that tore me up inside, though I forced myself to open my mind and take his words to heart.
My wife soon followed with her observations now that Dad got the ball rolling. Soon I felt crushed under the wheels of constructive critique.
But one thing Dad said, will always be with me, added to the long, long list of advice he's given me throughout my life. "When a book is good, it doesn't matter how many pages it has, and sometimes it's so good, that readers mourn the turning of each page as they reach the ending."
From now on, page count will be the last thing on my mind.
I thought back on the many times I wished there were another 100 pages in a story, and I never liked that firework style where so much leads to a quick and deciding end, you know, when a book takes 30 chapters to develop and one to conclude, leaving you unfulfilled.
And so, those of you who have embarked on this amazing journey of writing novels, don't make my mistake. Tell your story without setting limits, create without bounds, develop your story lines, your characters, situations, and dialogues to your heart's content. If you are anything like me, and I fervently believe we all share a certain element in our brain, for here we are, writing, you will make certain you leave your pages with your very best, and if your story warrants more than 700 pages, more than 1,000, so what? I've been there, agonizing over those last 20 pages wishing there was more, unable to stop the inevitable end, just as we are unable to stop the passage of time.
Best of luck on your stories, my friends. And now, I've a novel to rewrite.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
The Drive
The air was still and even when it came to dislodge more yellow leaves off the maple tree, it was cool rather than cold. The sun shone high in a sky of pure azure, untainted by any clouds. Light came in seemingly through every window in the small two-story abode we called home. On our front porch, an arrangement of pumpkins and gourds sat at the foot of an inflatable rendition of Frankenstein marking the first holiday of the fall.
A look at the forecast prompted me to fire up the tractor and the gas trimmer to pretty up the front yard. I changed into old jeans and a ratty sweatshirt and walked out into the sun, greedily inhaling the cool air. Once I was done with the trimming, I brought the tractor around and started rumbling through the yard when I became aware of a pair of eyes locked on me from the front door.
My four year old daughter, Kendra, stared wistfully at me, a sure way to earn herself an invitation on board the loud machine. Successful in her attempt, she hopped down the concrete walkway and seemed to glide on the grass as she came up to me. I readied a pair of earplugs and helped her put them on then I sat and propped her up on my lap, her small hands firmly holding the wheel.
The rumbling of the engine made conversation difficult, so I just hooted and hollered as she cut the wheels sharply making the rear tires spin on the grass. I could not see her face, but the tilt of her cheekbones bespoke of a wide grin as she drove. At that moment, the years fell away and I was suddenly transported back to when I was fifteen…
Dad reluctantly put away his coffee mug and seemed to buy himself some time as he moved slowly to the door. He moved with the easy grace of an athlete, my father, my best friend, my hero. Perhaps I found it easy to put him on a pedestal because today, Dad was taking me driving.
He offered me the keys, but remained still as I opened the door and climbed behind the wheel of our camel brown ’79 Chevrolet Chevette hatchback. The last time he had let me drive a car, I was eight and the little Mini Austin pick-up kicked up gravel and dust as I let the clutch out too quick and Dad’s face turned white with fright.
Seven years later, taller than him, I sense the same fright emanating from him as I pulled out onto the road, and tried hard to repress the building laughter as he checked mirrors and every window, while telling me to keep my eyes on the road. I had not broken 25mph when he told me to slow down, his foot pushing a hole through the floorboard on an imaginary brake pedal.
We drove up a steep street to a network of back roads that led to the high school. I figured I would spend the day driving in the safe realm of the school parking lot but to my surprise, Dad signaled for me to go past the school staying on the road.
There were a few scares as I nervously edged away from oncoming traffic while Dad literally jumped off his seat to take control of the vehicle but after a half hour, a curious thing happened.
Dad’s shoulders fell as he leaned back in his seat. He told me about one of his bosses, who told him to learn to drive, that it was part of the culture, and forcing him to eventually hop on his Mercedez Benz and making him drive.
The blacktop unfolded like water under a bridge and it felt more as if the road itself straightened out rather than the wheels turning to conform to its curves. We commented on that, the same way we had years before when I was a little kid.
I graduated into a main road and we followed it through a beautiful New England fall landscape as we drove through Huntington into Trumbull. I must have been doing impressively well, for Dad had me hop on the highway to get back home.
The speed matched my spirits, not because it was one of the first times I was in control of a car, but because I was with my dad sharing an intimate experience that I knew I would remember forever.
And here I was now, back in the present, with my daughter, experiencing the same thrill I had felt those years ago. She cut the wheel right, then left, then right again, and squealed with delight when I pointed her to the dirt road near our house we so fondly call “The Buggie Forest”.
Kendra steered the tractor under a canopy of pine needles bouncing on the gravelly road before emerging onto our street and heading back home. At only four years of age, she has a pretty good idea of how to keep the tractor on a straight line and I beam with pride at her unexpected prowess behind the wheel.
We pulled up by the front door, where Mommy nervously smiled at us from behind the glass. Kendra shut off the engine, removed her ear plugs and jumped down to tell Mommy all about it. I was smiling, shaking my head with joy as I watched her run when suddenly she suddenly stopped and ran back to me. I thought she would want to jump back on the tractor, but she put her hands on my arm and sweetly thanked me for the fun she had.
I thought of the unfamiliar look on Dad’s face when we walked back in the house after our drive and for the first time, I understood what he was feeling at the time. That mix of pride and joy and utter love that is intoxicating in its power, when as parents, we see our kids do well. I knew then that Kendra would never forget the experience as I will never forget mine. Thanks Dad.
A look at the forecast prompted me to fire up the tractor and the gas trimmer to pretty up the front yard. I changed into old jeans and a ratty sweatshirt and walked out into the sun, greedily inhaling the cool air. Once I was done with the trimming, I brought the tractor around and started rumbling through the yard when I became aware of a pair of eyes locked on me from the front door.
My four year old daughter, Kendra, stared wistfully at me, a sure way to earn herself an invitation on board the loud machine. Successful in her attempt, she hopped down the concrete walkway and seemed to glide on the grass as she came up to me. I readied a pair of earplugs and helped her put them on then I sat and propped her up on my lap, her small hands firmly holding the wheel.
The rumbling of the engine made conversation difficult, so I just hooted and hollered as she cut the wheels sharply making the rear tires spin on the grass. I could not see her face, but the tilt of her cheekbones bespoke of a wide grin as she drove. At that moment, the years fell away and I was suddenly transported back to when I was fifteen…
Dad reluctantly put away his coffee mug and seemed to buy himself some time as he moved slowly to the door. He moved with the easy grace of an athlete, my father, my best friend, my hero. Perhaps I found it easy to put him on a pedestal because today, Dad was taking me driving.
He offered me the keys, but remained still as I opened the door and climbed behind the wheel of our camel brown ’79 Chevrolet Chevette hatchback. The last time he had let me drive a car, I was eight and the little Mini Austin pick-up kicked up gravel and dust as I let the clutch out too quick and Dad’s face turned white with fright.
Seven years later, taller than him, I sense the same fright emanating from him as I pulled out onto the road, and tried hard to repress the building laughter as he checked mirrors and every window, while telling me to keep my eyes on the road. I had not broken 25mph when he told me to slow down, his foot pushing a hole through the floorboard on an imaginary brake pedal.
We drove up a steep street to a network of back roads that led to the high school. I figured I would spend the day driving in the safe realm of the school parking lot but to my surprise, Dad signaled for me to go past the school staying on the road.
There were a few scares as I nervously edged away from oncoming traffic while Dad literally jumped off his seat to take control of the vehicle but after a half hour, a curious thing happened.
Dad’s shoulders fell as he leaned back in his seat. He told me about one of his bosses, who told him to learn to drive, that it was part of the culture, and forcing him to eventually hop on his Mercedez Benz and making him drive.
The blacktop unfolded like water under a bridge and it felt more as if the road itself straightened out rather than the wheels turning to conform to its curves. We commented on that, the same way we had years before when I was a little kid.
I graduated into a main road and we followed it through a beautiful New England fall landscape as we drove through Huntington into Trumbull. I must have been doing impressively well, for Dad had me hop on the highway to get back home.
The speed matched my spirits, not because it was one of the first times I was in control of a car, but because I was with my dad sharing an intimate experience that I knew I would remember forever.
And here I was now, back in the present, with my daughter, experiencing the same thrill I had felt those years ago. She cut the wheel right, then left, then right again, and squealed with delight when I pointed her to the dirt road near our house we so fondly call “The Buggie Forest”.
Kendra steered the tractor under a canopy of pine needles bouncing on the gravelly road before emerging onto our street and heading back home. At only four years of age, she has a pretty good idea of how to keep the tractor on a straight line and I beam with pride at her unexpected prowess behind the wheel.
We pulled up by the front door, where Mommy nervously smiled at us from behind the glass. Kendra shut off the engine, removed her ear plugs and jumped down to tell Mommy all about it. I was smiling, shaking my head with joy as I watched her run when suddenly she suddenly stopped and ran back to me. I thought she would want to jump back on the tractor, but she put her hands on my arm and sweetly thanked me for the fun she had.
I thought of the unfamiliar look on Dad’s face when we walked back in the house after our drive and for the first time, I understood what he was feeling at the time. That mix of pride and joy and utter love that is intoxicating in its power, when as parents, we see our kids do well. I knew then that Kendra would never forget the experience as I will never forget mine. Thanks Dad.
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