novel ambitions.

Man, I really want to write a novel.

It's one of those things I know I'm meant to do. I've been telling stories as long as I can remember, and the form of the novel has always enchanted and enthralled me. So why haven't I written one? There are the standard excuses: too busy, too young, too little life experience, blah, blah, blah. But in the end, I don't really buy any of them, and I doubt anyone else would either.

Like many aspiring novelists, I spend a good amount of time in Barnes and Noble. Whenever I take a pause from reading someone else's published novel, I daydream of writing and publishing one of my own. But I have yet to figure out a way to channel that daydream energy into actual writing energy. I've always just assumed that one day I'll be old enough, wise enough, have time and money to spare, and will be able to carve out several months of free time to sit down and write The Great American Novel. But there has to be a way to do it now. There simply has to.

There's this guy I see in Barnes and Noble a lot, an older guy, probably late fifties or early sixties. I've been watching him for about a year now, as he's been writing a novel of his own. I can remember when it was just a newborn baby of a book, barely filling up a single, slim, spiral-bound notebook (he's writing out the entire thing in longhand). Now it's a stack of five or six swollen spiral-bound volumes, each one bigger and more crammed full of content than the last. I'd always seen the guy writing away, surrounded by yellow legal pad papers full of outlines, notes and diagrams, taking little pauses here and there to gaze thoughtfully into space before writing some more, and I'd always wondered what he was up to. It was clear he was writing a book, but what kind? A history? A memoir? A how-to manual? Perhaps his own take on the kama sutra for retired folk?

Today, I discovered that it is indeed a novel, and he's calling it A Fine Line. Not bad. A bit John Grishamy for my tastes, probably some sort of thriller, but there are worse titles.

This guy impresses the heck out of me. Yes, he's most likely retired and now he's able to make novel-writing his life. But still, he's doing it. He's actually writing! He could be putzing around, killing time with aimless, retired-guy things like fishing, taxidermy or collecting coins, or worse, wasting away on beer and bad television. But there he is, day after day, whittling away at a novel of his own. I really hope he doesn't go the cheap, self-published, local author route and publish the book as one of those cheesy paperpacks with the bad binding, the shoddy typeface and the pixellated image on the cover. I hope he holds out for the real deal.

I want to talk to the guy, get to know him and his novel a little bit, but I haven't worked up the nerve yet. Not that I'm afraid to talk to strangers, but I'm reluctant to invade the inner sanctum of this guy's creative life. He's so encapsulated in his cozy little world of words. I'd hate to disturb him. I know how I'd feel if someone, no matter how well-intentioned, began asking me questions, butting into my quiet, creative cocoon. Maybe one of these days I'll find a way in and find out something about him and his precious novel. What's it about? Is it his first book? Does he have plans to publish? I so want to pick his brain, even just a little bit, but at the same time, I strongly desire to respect his privacy and honor The Creative Code, which often includes recognizing and adhering to the boundaries creative people establish for themselves in order to do their thing.

As for my own endeavors, I've made many abortive attempts at writing, and there are many rough first and second chapters of unfinished novels to prove it. Now I feel like I'm truly on the cusp of getting started, but I've been waiting for the right idea. Don't get me wrong, I have tons of ideas, ones that I've been nursing for years, but I haven't wanted to make any of those the guinea pig in my first-novel-writing experiment. I've come to believe that, as with any enterprise, novel-writing must be learned, and once it is learned, it can only be perfected through practice. I used to operate under the delusion that you just sat down, put pen to paper and POOF! War and Peace. Oh, how sad. But now I get it. You don't just pick up a violin and rip through Mozart's Violin Concerto no. 4 without a single flaw on your first try (unless you're Itzhak Perlman). Instead, you have to start out by butchering "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" (also written by Mozart, as it turns out). And then you butcher it some more, and then some more, until it sounds something more like the notes on the page, and less like skinning a yorkshire terrier. Then you move on to butchering harder pieces until you're able to show them who's boss. And then, one day, you play through a great piece of music you've never seen before, and when you're done you put down your instrument and realize you've just played the entire thing flawlessly. You have arrived.

So, what will be my "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star"? Hmmmm . . .


TO BE CONTINUED