I was 22
years old, and had just graduated college. There was a short time
period after graduation when I could live near campus, because
classes stopped in early May but my lease was good until mid-July. I
chose to stay away from my parents’ house for that 2-month period.
My justification was that I could focus on the job hunt, and that I
had fewer distractions at school because most other students would be
gone.
My parents bought it. That said, I did
make a token effort in the job search. Still stubbornly naive, I had
all confidence that I would be able to land a job within minutes of
actually applying myself to the task. So, why waste this valuable
time with the real world? After all, this was my last chance to
enjoy the freedom of college life.
I wanted to do something big, and I had
a few ideas. They mulled around in my mind for a day or two,
sparring and struggling for dominance. There was a science
fiction/fantasy idea, which I had been thinking about and somewhat
planning for several years. In the same vein, I considered going
full-force into my ideas for a new role-playing game in the style of
Dungeons and Dragons (if you’re too young to know what that is:
Wikipedia). That new game is something I had actually worked on, in
substantial detail, the previous summer. To answer your question:
No, I didn’t have many friends.
However, there was another potential
project, which was winning the skirmish at the time. It was what I
considered to be my great philosophical endeavor. You see, I loved
the library. I loved books (I still do). I especially loved parsing
the depths of the library, in the lower levels where nobody ever
went, to find an inspiring philosophical treatise that hadn’t been
checked out since the 70’s. I’d take this forgotten gem,
perhaps something by Spinoza or Schopenhauer, and sit in one of the
big easy chairs in one of the reading rooms. And then I’d read
until I couldn’t stand it any more.
Accordingly, I’d take all this
reading and apply it to my own endeavors. I thought I could easily
write my own philosophical work, and take great care to do it right.
Of course, I would include hundreds of citations and quotations, and
be mindful of criticisms. I’d polish it until there was nothing
left but brilliance. After all, I was a brilliant person.
But I guess I was mature enough to
realize that I wasn’t mature enough. Someday that was an
achievable goal, perhaps, but not right then. I entertained the idea
of doing a less extensive philosophical work – a thought experiment
somewhat in the style of Hume - but that didn’t garner the same
kind of energy. So, for another day or two, I wasn’t sure what I
was going to do with this time I had available. Luckily, I had a lot
of TV to catch up on, and the “on demand” feature had just been
coming into stride. Therefore, I'd hesitate to say those were wasted
days, because I enjoyed myself thoroughly. If a 12-pack of cheap
beer and 15 hours of Discovery Channel programs isn't a good day,
then I don't know what a good day is.
That night, late, I was stirring with
an unusual energy. To borrow a cliché (and I hate clichés):
it hit me. Great works have interesting characters. So, I needed
something that had great characters. People who were exceedingly
complex, constantly intriguing, never quite certain. And thereby,
serve as a metaphor of my young adult life in general. The
frustration! The demands! The drama! I needed an Armory Blaine. I
needed a Jake Barnes.
Such was my ego at the time.
Nonetheless, I was not short on inspiration.
This novel became a series of short
stories, which failed and proved frustrating, and was then pushed
back into novel form. It was meant to be a novel - that was how I
wrote it in the first place. You see, it was divided into chapters,
like a novel. Generally, I would write one chapter a day. Some days
it didn’t happen, due to my own personal distractions or a lack of
energy. But otherwise, I was full into writing. And I felt proud
of it.
Of course, the current chapters do not
represent the chapters at original writing. This book has been
pulled apart and put together a half-dozen times. There were about
15 chapters in the first writing. Many of those have been cropped,
merged, or eliminated entirely by now.
It was a lovely time. The days were
long, warm, and sunny. My uniform was a T-shirt and gym shorts. I
could wake up when I chose, eat when and what I chose, exercise, nap,
watch morning TV (I was into international soccer at the time). You
know, whatever I felt like. But I also had the time and the energy
to write, to really write. I wrote of my own personal
ambition and volition, for perhaps the first time in my life.
Ten days passed and I had ten chapters
in place. Some of them I liked more than others, but I was overall
very proud of the achievement. It was about 60 pages of typed text.
Then or about then, I concluded that I really enjoyed writing, and
wanted it to be my profession.
That should give you some idea of my
mindset at the time I originally drafted this thing.
When the work was all done, it was
about 20,000 words. Not exactly novel length, but I didn’t let
that discourage me. I sent it to the few friends that I had,
including the parents of one of my good friends. It was a proud
moment for me, to share my work while still in its adolescent stages.
Much to my surprise, the reviews of the
short novel were less than outstanding. I was told that it needed
more work, that it felt incomplete. And they weren’t sure what the
real plot was, like it didn’t come to a conclusion. This came as
somewhat of a shock, because I felt quite the opposite. I thought it
was very complete and had a clear message. I thought the character
development was excellent, and patiently arrived at a Joyce-like
epiphany – No, several epiphanies!
But, they didn’t agree with me. Yes,
but what about the characters? I asked. They liked Anna. Why Anna?
I asked. What about Ron - the person to whom most of my energy was
dedicated? They responded with a collective shrug of the shoulders.
As you might expect, I was discouraged.
I let the book sit idle. Eventually I went back to my parents’
house - a familiar trip that was the curse of my entire generation.
I spent the rest of that summer drinking, sleeping, and fattening.
Later, towards autumn, the boredom
roused me from my funk. I sent the manuscript of the novel to a dozen
different publishers via email, postage, and one faxed copy. Though
much reduced from my original arrogance, I was still very hopeful
that I would get something. I was almost expecting to.
To no one’s surprise but my own,
nothing came of it. For most of them, I never heard back. For the
few I did, it was a chafe of words: “No thank you,” or “Resubmit
later.”
And so, the novel went into
hibernation. I lived the real life in the meantime, slowly becoming
an adult. Therefore, by the time I revisited the book, most of my
idealism and optimism had left me.
Revisiting was an interesting task.
Even though my ego was much diminished, I felt that there were still
a few good parts to the novel. One or two of the characters were
genuinely interesting, and some of the situations were genuinely
dramatic. Why, with a little work, this could be a serviceable text.
I pondered, and then there it was. A
young man’s idealistic short novel, which could be reworked and
arranged into something at least presentable. Effectively, the
highlights of the former novel.
I hope you will enjoy it. Now available on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00HJDFXZS