Reflections on Writing a First Novel - Part 3
I forgot how absolutely petrified I was going into my freshman year of university.
If I were to write about this feeling in bad freshman prose, what would it sound like?
"His heart racing, his knees quaking, he stumbled towards the steps, the hallowed halls of the great institution."
I’m sure I could write something more hackneyed and trite than that. Just give me a second to warm up.
"His delicate bladder bursting from anxiety-twinged spasms, he worried that his adult diaper would forge a barrier between his bodily functions and his dignity. Would his Depends hold ups to such pressure? It depended on the quality of the Depends." (For that paragraph alone, I have received a formal notification from University of Miami that they want their degree back.)
My freshman year, my passion might have been English, but my preoccupation was math. And I did a lot of math, figuring out how I was going to pay for tuition—and work. It seemed a big chance to go to South Florida without first finding a job.
Now, a little bit fatter and balding, it seems silly. Of course, things were going to work out!
But back then, it was petrifying. Would I get a job? Could I make enough money? I lost an 850 dollar grant. Financial aid seemed arcane and impractical. I’ve always been an artistic, romantic person at heart. It seemed practical to do things by the seat of your own passion. Pedantic details scare the shit out of me—and that’s why I kept doing the math, over and over. I fret over the details even as I love the big daring brush-strokes.
I find this quote in my journal. My dad told it to me the summer before college: “The past is history, tomorrow’s a mystery, but today’s a gift.” It’s funny, but I don’t remember my dad saying anything quite that inspiring before. So, going to university, petrified as I was, was a gift.
And then there was the novel I took with me. In a way, it’s the dream I still hold with me. The idea that education will be more like the kind of training an artisan receives. I thought about quiet moments where I would work on my craft, draft after draft, and there would be a culture/ecology that would nurture me.
That's what I'm still looking for -- my tribe of writer artisans. Who says teenagers don't know what they want?
[This was Part 3 in a series of reflections on my first novel and the time around when it was written. I will give a bit of spoiler: Many of the elements of that novel have since become elements of short stories. "Travel" a short story in "Something to Stem the Diminishing" is one of my favorites. If you absolutely have to read "Travel," contact me on Goodreads and I'll see what I can do about getting you a copy of "Something to Stem the Diminishing."]
If I were to write about this feeling in bad freshman prose, what would it sound like?
"His heart racing, his knees quaking, he stumbled towards the steps, the hallowed halls of the great institution."
I’m sure I could write something more hackneyed and trite than that. Just give me a second to warm up.
"His delicate bladder bursting from anxiety-twinged spasms, he worried that his adult diaper would forge a barrier between his bodily functions and his dignity. Would his Depends hold ups to such pressure? It depended on the quality of the Depends." (For that paragraph alone, I have received a formal notification from University of Miami that they want their degree back.)
My freshman year, my passion might have been English, but my preoccupation was math. And I did a lot of math, figuring out how I was going to pay for tuition—and work. It seemed a big chance to go to South Florida without first finding a job.
Now, a little bit fatter and balding, it seems silly. Of course, things were going to work out!
But back then, it was petrifying. Would I get a job? Could I make enough money? I lost an 850 dollar grant. Financial aid seemed arcane and impractical. I’ve always been an artistic, romantic person at heart. It seemed practical to do things by the seat of your own passion. Pedantic details scare the shit out of me—and that’s why I kept doing the math, over and over. I fret over the details even as I love the big daring brush-strokes.
I find this quote in my journal. My dad told it to me the summer before college: “The past is history, tomorrow’s a mystery, but today’s a gift.” It’s funny, but I don’t remember my dad saying anything quite that inspiring before. So, going to university, petrified as I was, was a gift.
And then there was the novel I took with me. In a way, it’s the dream I still hold with me. The idea that education will be more like the kind of training an artisan receives. I thought about quiet moments where I would work on my craft, draft after draft, and there would be a culture/ecology that would nurture me.
That's what I'm still looking for -- my tribe of writer artisans. Who says teenagers don't know what they want?
[This was Part 3 in a series of reflections on my first novel and the time around when it was written. I will give a bit of spoiler: Many of the elements of that novel have since become elements of short stories. "Travel" a short story in "Something to Stem the Diminishing" is one of my favorites. If you absolutely have to read "Travel," contact me on Goodreads and I'll see what I can do about getting you a copy of "Something to Stem the Diminishing."]
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