This is number 156 in the blog series, “My Writing Life.” I encourage you to join my Patreon community to support my writing.
I TURNED 77 TODAY. I think that’s a lucky number, right? It’s my golden-golden birthday. 27 on the 27th plus 50. I just made that up.
I started writing in my newest journal (mentioned last week) on Thursday this week. The first entry began “Breakfast at IHOP.” Pretty mundane entry for this fancy a journal. The book itself is imposing. Large pages, narrow lines, gold leaf edges, and I’m writing about breakfast.
But that’s the way life is.
When writing a novel, I’m concerned about moving the story along, creating tension, having a hook that keeps the reader engaged. But life’s not like that. Life is lying in bed under the electric blanket as long as possible on a chilly morning, and then having breakfast. It’s realizing I forgot to put my hearing aids in this morning, so I can’t listen to my phone in the restaurant. It’s enjoying the first sip (or cup or pot) of coffee in the morning, thinking about my lines for the show, and putting gas in the truck. ($130!) Things that aren’t even related to each other by anything other than being part of my life. There’s no hook at the end of this chapter. There’s just my bed and the warmth of my electric blanket when I’ve had enough of the day.
It’s not at all depressing. It’s life. It’s realizing life is not a novel. There won’t be a world-shaking crisis to resolve in this story arc, nor an even graver crisis in the next chapter to keep the audience reading. For that matter, there is no audience—no readership to keep interested. Life simply is not a novel.
Which is one of the problems with writing a novel.
I’ve read books and have seen movies, and have even written books, that require a sequel. The problem is: to maintain interest, there needs to be something even more critical to be resolved in the sequel than there was in the original. I’m convinced the proportion of sequels that garner greater readership than the original is quite small compared to those that fall off.
I think of it this way: Book one—the hero saves the life of his one true love, and they live happily ever after. Except in book two—the hero saves the village from the destruction of the monster so they can live happily ever after. Except in book three—the nation faces a crisis that will plunge it into devastating war if the hero doesn’t rescue it so they can live happily ever after. Except in book four—the world faces a cataclysm that will end civilization as we know it unless the hero’s brilliant scientific mind can bring it back from the brink, so they live happily ever after. Except…
What comes next? A threat to the solar system? The galaxy? The universe? When do we actually get to ‘happily ever after?’
That’s life! No sequels. Whether it is happily ever after is entirely up to us. At 77 years of age, I can happily say I have already survived the worst day of my life so far. Should something happen in the future that I don’t survive… Well, I’ve already lived happily ever after. Don’t wait for the sequel. It’s already been written.
When I first conceived of Nathan Everett’s (Wayzgoose on SOL) City Limits, I’d already started the outline of Wild Woods. I knew there would be a sequel, because I couldn’t adequately explore the subject in one book.
Are we nothing more than the accumulated memories and experiences of our lives, or is there something deep inside us that makes us what we are, able to rise above those memories and experiences?
Gee Evars arrives in the city of Rosebud Falls just in time to dive into a raging river to save a drowning toddler—and to lose his memory. I thought of the two books as season one and season two of a television series possibly called The Man Without a Memory. I’m sure television execs would have come up with a better series name. Ah well. Season one: Gee’s arrival in Rosebud Falls and loss of memory. Building a life for himself based on what he perceives as right and wrong. Season two: Discovering a purpose in his memory loss that makes him the perfect counselor for damaged and abused children.
Was there a season three planned?
Not really. Not because Gee wasn’t an interesting character, but that the normal life he lived from that point on was much like the lives of most of us. His day started under his electric blanket and ended when he returned to it. I didn’t want to keep inventing bigger crises for Gee to become the hero of. He was the hero of this crisis. Now there was happily ever after.
City Limits and Wild Woods are available as eBooks from ZBookStore and in paperback from online vendors.
So, does this mean that I think of life as meaningless and uninteresting?
No. It’s just not a novel. My life is quite full. I’m joining my daughter and our family to see a production of Hamlet this afternoon. This evening, I’ll go to rehearsal for the shadow production of The Rocky Horror Picture Show at Red Curtain Theatre, in which I play the role of the Criminologist/Narrator. I’m eleven chapters deep in my new work in progress, My Name Is Vengeance, and am preparing another book, Code Kitty, for editing and publication.
I ordered three new shirts that arrived this week, as well as path lights to install in front of my trailer. Oh, and two new fountain pens in vintage rose and emerald green as birthday presents to myself. I’m enjoying the flow of ink from my pens as I write in my journal—even when what I write is not profound.
Life is filled with adventures. They just aren’t necessarily what novels are made of. I think sometimes we believe our lives are incredibly boring just because they aren’t filled with manufactured plots and crises. It’s not so.
It’s just that life is for living, not reading about.