Coming soon to a bookstore near you?

I’ve just finished writing a novel. The story has been kicking around for a long time—since 1985 when I actually lived the events depicted. It is true, but I wrote it as a novel because the plot is pretty bizarre and I thought it might go over better as fiction than trying to explain myself.

Writing a novel is a strange exercise. I’ve always dreamed of doing it, and you know, it wasn’t as hard as it seemed; once you have a plot and know what all of your characters are going to do and when they’re going to do it, you only need to flesh out the details and the characterizations. The hardest part was finding an opening—a place for the story to begin.

That was really difficult. But once I found my opening line, the rest of almost wrote itself.

It’s not enough to simply list a bunch of events in chronological order. A while back I worked with an acquaintance on his novel—and that’s pretty much just what he did, which I found to be tedious and amateurish. Of course, I didn’t tell him that then, but if I were doing the same thing today, I would. I don’t think people want to read a long list of events without any accompanying detail. I could be wrong about that, but no good novel I’ve ever read starts at the front and moves an increment at a time toward the conclusion. It jumps around—here, there, everywhere—and keeps the reader a little off-balance throughout most of the story. That was actually inherent to the plot of my story, since it spans two time periods with parallel stories—the 1900s and the 1980s—so it wasn’t hard to keep the plot moving.

I learned a lot about writing—how it sounds in my head is not always how it comes out on paper. It’s easier to write like you talk, but that’s not always a good thing to read, unless your characters are speaking in accents. Stream of consciousness writing is harder still—and it bores me to tears to read sometimes. Somewhere between conversation and raw brain spew is a mddle ground with structure—that’s the place I had to find, and I’m glad to say I think I did.

I learned that you don’t have to sprinkle commas all over the place. I learned that even when you take pains to prevent it, there are errors of continuity, time, movement, thought you didn’t intend to make. Holding all the threads of plot and character together without dropping them occasionally is just not possible. You have to be willing to let the book get written before you fix those, or you’ll find you’ve locked yourself into a plot element you can’t get out of.

I also thought that if I ever wrote a book I would not be able to let anyone else read my writing until it was finished, or read other people’s writing; but those were myths. Not only was it helpful to have another set of eyes on the continuity and the spelling errors, it provided me with a couple of insights into something that had been completely unconscious. A friend of mine read through the first half of the novel and her only complaint was that it had a “bitter” undertone which I hadn’t intended. I went through the early chapters and discovered she was correct, and fixed that. Funny how your mind will throw your own hidden agendas into your writing—up until that time, I had never thought of myself as bitter, but I know now I am (though less so now that I’ve written away a lot of the demons!) and I’m glad I had it pointed out.

I was also able to read and enjoy other novelists while I wrote. Sometimes it was helpful to know that other writers may have similar sentence structure as you—seeing these in print aided me in knowing how to resolve some of the problems I had with my sentences.
It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience writing my book. I want to write more of them—turn this into a profession for me, even if this one does not sell. I simply like being in charge of the words that other people will read.

Oh, and there is one more thing I learned. Back up your files. When I lost the power supply in my home PC half-way through the book, I thought I was doomed, but my files were fine and my machine is now running again. I didn’t take that warning for granted, though—and went right out and bought myself a little flash drive.

Next purchase: a laptop so I can write anywhere anytime.

I think I’m on my way to a new era in my life…I hope it pays off!

Uncoiling

It happens every year in the late Winter: I begin to uncoil. It's a palpable feeling of opening up, each time I get up in the morning and the sun has already risen and there is a breeze blowing in off the river. I can smell Spring coming, from a long distance, and it triggers a desire in me to get out all my shorter trousers, all my short-sleeved tops, dig up those stalks I left in the garden which are now all brown and crisp and will crumble into dust if I touch them; it's like a hibernating bear, dreaming those last few winter dreams, begins to stir in restless slumber, waiting for the time when she will wake to the new grass sprouting and fish coming back up the water to spawn.

I start to become tired of the cold. I feel quite put out
when the sky is the color of a bruise, and begins to spit out that last, wet, sleety snow. Of course Nature has every right to snow--it's still Winter. Spring is about twenty days away, and that's only the official date for the season to turn--here in Ohio, where the Spring is largely mythological instead of real, it's probably more like two months away until I can actuall begin digging and planting and get those windows open at last to blow out all the dust that's accumulated since October.

I also feel like traveling. I don't have anywhere to go, really, but I want to pack some stuff in the car, drive in a Southerly direction, and just get on the road. There are a lot of reasons not to travel at this time of the year. The weather is unpredictable. I could be driving through 50-degree weather one minute, and in a freak blizzard the next. There's not much to see right now, either. No leaves yet--just the rosy tips of the maples and dogwoods as the sap rises. This is one sign I watch for every year: when the woods take on a pinkish hue over the usual brown-gray, I know that Spring and leafing out is imminent. I once read somewhere that the maples bloom early--most people don't know they do, because the flowers are simply small, insignificant green clusters with red arils, which get shed and fall to the forest floor like red-pepper flakes--sometimes on the snow itself. There are other signs just as reliable though.

The Canada geese begin to make big Vs across the sky, taking off to their nesting grounds. Certain birds become scarcer--chickadees and cardinals to name two--and others come to take their places: robins, kingfishers, bluejays and hawks. Hawks are plentiful now--you can see them standing sentry along the freeways, one about every five-hundred feet or so, feathers fluffed and shoulders hunched against the cold breezes that make the tall trees sway.
When the weather warms and even now, on sunny days, you will see them circling, looking for early-waking mice or squirrels, or simply enjoying the sun on their backs as they glide the thermals. The daffodils and early tulips begin to poke up fat green fingers through frozen soil. Cress appears on the stream-edges. Skunk cabbage emerges, looking like small heads of lettuce dropped accidentally. And every tree you see will soon bend its delicate small branches, heavy with fat buds. It's coming. There's no doubt. But it takes its sweet time about it.

They say Spring moves Northward at about fifteen miles a day from the South. I want to rip down the road at about eighty--taking note of every sign and sigil as I fly. That's
the uncoiling that begins in me at this time of year. Once begun, it goes much faster than Springtime. I can already see the riot of color in my front garden, even though I haven't planted a single seed yet and won't for a while yet.

Maybe it's time for some inner changes too. This year, I'll buy a bicycle and begin pedalling to work, instead of driving. It's not far--less than a mile. I can do that. And maybe this year when the ground thaws and the nights are warmer, I'll put in that patio I want so badly--and build my firepit up with some blocks or stones. I have a wall in front of my house, I could use those rocks. I'll need a wheelbarrow to haul them--the work will be hard and sweaty, but I'll love it when it's done, I just know it. And music--I want to have parties

where people bring their guitars and banjos and drums--around that new firepit. I'll put the canopy up and we'll eat hotdogs and roast marshmallows.

Damn--I'm impatient, that I am. Spring isn't even here and I'm already planning Summer. Moving right along, at a speed much faster than Nature intended.