I missed posting here last month, as I dove headlong into my book, my baby.
And I should say that it is finished, and edited to the best of my ability, and
copyrighted, all legal and proper. And one would think that would be the end
of it, but I do so love what my pen did write that I can’t seem to help re-reading
my words and spending my precious time with that past what kept me company
for all those years. I just absolutely adored the people and the life that nurtured
my spirit and soul, and the feelings that I discovered along the way, and the way
that I discovered to live and die, and live, again. It was lifetimes ago, yet, in the
stillness of the night, the essence of it all calls to me, and I have had difficulty
tearing myself away and coming back to reality. In deed, I have given serious
thought of returning to that life, and it is in working through the details of such
a whim, that I must realize that world no longer exists except in my writing, and
I must live in the here and now and only visit that world, that life, when I read.
There’s more to writing a book than placing words in intelligent sentences that
communicate thought and idea. An author once autographed his book to me as
“to appear before the world with your pants pulled down,” naked as a Playboy
centerfold, and yet, it is so much more personal and revealing than to just have
your thoughts read on the world stage. In well written text, especially fiction, the
author’s upbringing and education is spotlighted, as are personal characteristics,
preferences, and some of the most intimate bits and pieces that make up a person
as the whole. In every character within a story, the author brings to light all the
things that make you notice and get to know that character, and thereby reveals
the how, what, and why that makes that author notice the people in their world.
The plot and circumstance of the story can so easily tell the tale of what haunts
or torments the soul of the author, and while the story may take place in another
time and location, with people whose names have necessarily been changed, a
reference point can be found within the text with which the author identifies. A
well written sexual encounter can disclose what excites an author, or what the
author has found excites those that author has encountered. The fabric of a shirt
or skirt, when described in detail, can hint of the preference of cloth to be worn
by the author, or by a character with which the author has taken notice. Take a
scene, any scene, and read into that setting what delights the heart of the author,
from the description of a table setting and the food that was consumed, to the
scenery and all it had to offer the senses.
Some decades ago, a young local man put pen to paper and, freeing the demons
within his own mind, published a book based on his teen-age trials and errors,
and there was this great rush of those of his age to read what he did write. There
was this curiosity of what secrets he dared to tell, and the hopes that many held
that he had written them into infamy as characters, and the fears of others that
they would not out-live their own deeds of teen-year grandeur. There was great
disappointment that some did not rate a place within his ramblings, as there was
relief of the few that they were not mentioned at all by name or reference. In the
short years after, there were other similar annual rushes to land a copy of his book,
the curious nature of younger siblings to discover what needed be known of living
and surviving those hard-fought adolescent years, that most difficult transition
period prior to the safety of adulthood. When at long last I sought a copy to read
as research, the book had mysteriously disappeared, the last known copy had left
our public library and never was returned. Well, it was controversial, and there
were some who wished it out of existence because of its content, but we finally
obtained a copy through inter-library loan and, while it wasn’t to my own personal
liking, it did serve a purpose. And so it was, and it still exists, and should, because
life goes on and what we can glean from whatever an author finds reason to write
can find purpose, and it is in the magical comprehension of words that the world
is brought more into focus.
This all brings to mind the day a friend sat reading my, at that time, unfinished
manuscript, and suddenly looked up at me as though to ask, ‘Are you certain you
want to write this?’ His raised eyebrows and the surprise on his face prompted
me to ask what he found wrong, to which he responded, ‘There’s an awful lot of
you in here!’ Of course, there is! If I learned nothing else from all those How-To
books on writing, it was that you should write about what you know, and so I did.
And so I am in it, me, and my friends and the journey we did take, and while it is
all fiction, well, most of it is, I can spot me, and no doubt, a friend or two would
be able to spot themselves. They were all real people and deserved to be treated
as such, even though I changed their names and gave them a world of fantasy in
which to romp and play. And I was kind, too kind, in my descriptions and details
of my characters, as some of them became bigger than life and others grew into
the heroes that they only dreamed of being. But I’m sure their egos will permit
them to identify themselves quite satisfactorily. And for those who raise their
eyebrows and are surprised at the attention which I lavished upon them, purpose
can be realized in the entertainment value, alone. For those who cannot seem to
dispel the shock of my sensual, romantic nature, I can only say that you never
really knew me, after all. And if in reading my words and sentences, and pages
of paragraphs some sense of purpose or reason should actually become apparent,
I can best hope that it would be that loyalty and love and self-sacrifice triumphs
over betrayal and hatred and greed.
