Memories of My First Novel - Part 2
It occurs to me now that I rarely spend that much time working on a story in any one day.
I have adult things to do. I imitate being an adult. 28 is an obsession with an ideal that others hold you to. People wonder when you show up to work with strange odors. People wonder when your room is dirty.
I keep my apartment clean. I make sure that my car has its oil changed. I do my laundry and grocery shopping. During the times I have a job, I make sure that I go to it diligently, and that I’m a model worker. Occasionally, I even read a book that helps me become an even better functioning adult. I find the book, "How to Deal with Difficult People" sitting on my bookshelf right next to an unread copy of "1984."
I am now a wannabe novelist imitating being an adult. But at least I know what I'm doing. Well, if I live long enough to be 38, maybe my older self will dispute this fact endlessly with me.
What was I doing that day, of my 18th year in the coffee shop, ten years ago. I was struggling desperately with something. I was struggling to make good on my promises to others. That I would grow up to be a writer. That I would get my work published. That I would be great. To make up for all the mediocrity of my life.
Another memory sticks out, my first day in the coffee shop at the age of 17, right before my senior year. It’s right before my job as a telemarketer. I spent my time before work trying to learn the craft of writing. This is the first time it has occurred to me that I am not naturally gifted at writing and that I would need to actually learn how to write by reading books on the subject. First up was William Zinnzer’s "On Writing Well."
I’m 28 and I still admire my initiative some 10 or 11 years ago. There were other things I did that summer before my senior year. I went out with friends and helped them sneak into movies. I read very difficult material—some really academic study of the holocaust written by an academic that was nearly impossible. I got up for football practice at 6 a.m. in the morning. I thought a lot about my life and my future. I dreamed. Sometimes I dreamed without hesitation and other times I worried about what I would become.
The novel was one thing of many. For many years and several more to come, the novel would be just one thing.
(That was Part 2. What can we expect of Part 3? The scourge of multiple drafts! A plot that is impossible for an 18-year-old to write! And more memories.)
I have adult things to do. I imitate being an adult. 28 is an obsession with an ideal that others hold you to. People wonder when you show up to work with strange odors. People wonder when your room is dirty.
I keep my apartment clean. I make sure that my car has its oil changed. I do my laundry and grocery shopping. During the times I have a job, I make sure that I go to it diligently, and that I’m a model worker. Occasionally, I even read a book that helps me become an even better functioning adult. I find the book, "How to Deal with Difficult People" sitting on my bookshelf right next to an unread copy of "1984."
I am now a wannabe novelist imitating being an adult. But at least I know what I'm doing. Well, if I live long enough to be 38, maybe my older self will dispute this fact endlessly with me.
What was I doing that day, of my 18th year in the coffee shop, ten years ago. I was struggling desperately with something. I was struggling to make good on my promises to others. That I would grow up to be a writer. That I would get my work published. That I would be great. To make up for all the mediocrity of my life.
Another memory sticks out, my first day in the coffee shop at the age of 17, right before my senior year. It’s right before my job as a telemarketer. I spent my time before work trying to learn the craft of writing. This is the first time it has occurred to me that I am not naturally gifted at writing and that I would need to actually learn how to write by reading books on the subject. First up was William Zinnzer’s "On Writing Well."
I’m 28 and I still admire my initiative some 10 or 11 years ago. There were other things I did that summer before my senior year. I went out with friends and helped them sneak into movies. I read very difficult material—some really academic study of the holocaust written by an academic that was nearly impossible. I got up for football practice at 6 a.m. in the morning. I thought a lot about my life and my future. I dreamed. Sometimes I dreamed without hesitation and other times I worried about what I would become.
The novel was one thing of many. For many years and several more to come, the novel would be just one thing.
(That was Part 2. What can we expect of Part 3? The scourge of multiple drafts! A plot that is impossible for an 18-year-old to write! And more memories.)
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