Found Nothing, Coming Home

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