Inaugural post - as we begin to set sail

I have completed my first novel and, as I now begin the publishing process, I am moved to think about what a long strange journey it has been.

I don't know how it started for you but I was meant to be a writer. I had all the classic ingredients. I had a miserable childhood, was inattentive in school, and couldn't spell correctly. But, then it was Hemingway who said something to the effect that it was a poor mind that couldn't think of more than one way to spell a word. And, as far as spelling and grammar go I will paraphrase Churchill and say that that is, most definitely, a belief up with which I will put!

I grew up, for a time in the same town in which Carl Sandburg once lived, just down the road from where Hemingway grew up so all the signs seemed to point me toward...something.

My love affair grew when I discovered Bookman's Alley in Evanston, IL. This is a GREAT used bookstore with wonderful overstuffed couches and cookies available for the patrons who pass the day trying to choose which books to buy. On a chalkboard in the back are written the current best sellers "Ulysses, Great Expectations, Paradise Lost" and the like. If you are looking for a copy of the Poetic Edda in Ancient Norse it is a great place to stop.

The class clown in high school, I applied myself to my studies in college. I steeped myself in Shakespeare, Joyce, W.B. Yeats, seeped myself in drink and bohemian ways and became the dandy of the English department. I was well on my way to greatness.

When college was done and all my friends went on to begin their high paying careers, caged in cubicles like veal calves, I fearlessly took a factory job in a printing plant which afforded me the time to write and read. I was 22 years old, wandering, houseless, desolate, alone, without or guide or chart!

And so, with the ghosts of Joyce, Shakespeare, Milton and Homer prodding me from behind and all the questions of the Universe tugging at my shirt sleeve I put pen to paper and began what I knew in my heart of hearts would be the greatest novel ever written. Behold!

These were lonely times for me. My mother had recently died of cancer and ever since my mother had fallen ill I had been neglected almost completely by my father.

Zzzzzz. Boring.

But, that’s the nice thing about writing as opposed to playing an instrument. You can fail all you want before someone sees the finished product…

The morning after my mother’s death, I was surprised to see the sunrise. From behind the curtain of my bedroom window I was surprised to see the people leave their homes and begin the day. Downstairs, the hands of the grandfather clock continued to tick, marking each passing hour with a chime that echoed over the black and white chessboard tiles of the front hall. I was surprised to see the mail come at the same time as the day before and, later that evening, the sun set once more as it did since the beginning of time. My mother’s death did not disturb the planets in their courses. And, though everything kept moving like she never existed at all, my world erupted into chaos until the universe swirled around me like a whirlpool of scattering stars.