The Novel

I got to thinking the other day, “If I am serious about writing and becoming a recognized writer, the only medium that will do both is to write a novel.” Nobody wants to read my musings, or as I call them, narratives after all. They are just my thoughts, as they come to me and have no meaning to anyone but me. Plus, I do it when I want to and that requires not having a schedule. So I must dedicate myself to writing a novel. I read about 2 books a week as it is and I concentrate in the genre of crime mysteries written by some darn good writers, and they all seem to have lots of novels to their name and seem to be doing real well financially. So if I am to move forward, I must write a novel of my own.

First. What will my story be about? Will it be where someone gets murdered and someone else spends the next 350 pages trying to find them? I can’t write a romantic novel because you are supposed to write about what you know. Yet, I don’t know anything about murdering people which leads me to think- if all of the other writers I read have first hand knowledge of murdering someone, why are they not in jail. So maybe first hand knowledge of your subject is not so important.

 I could write a western novel where the cowboy ruled and fell in love with his horse, drank whiskey like water and was a free as a bird. He would have a 6-gun strapped to his side and sleep on the ground with his saddle as a pillow, wherever he was at the end of the day. He would fix grub, pick his teeth with a bowie knife and take a bath once he came into town, which would be seldom. He would punch cows to make some extra spending money; he could rope doggies and ride bulls. I like this idea, but I have just told you all I know about this subject, and there just does not seem to be enough content for the average reader.

How about a story where a farmer who came from back east and settled in South Dakota in the 1880’s, staked his claim to 160 acres of free land and spent the rest of his life breaking the sod and creating the ingredients that would later become the dust bowl years. He would work from sunrise to sunset and then watch as the rains never came and some hoard of insects settled in to destroy all of his work. He would have to lug water from a mile away in barrels and eat rabbits just to subsist. There wouldn’t be any trees so where would his dog take a leak? We would see how he tried to raise a family in a sod hut and sat by as his children died from all of the diseases that would be coming their way. And his wife would always be sweeping the dirt floor and wear nothing but homemade dresses made from flower sacks. No, that would be too depressing to write about, plus I would have to do research on the subject and that would take time and interests I just don’t have. I would rather just write about something I am familiar with and something that would require no work on my part. After all, I am semi-retired now and I don’t have much time left and what time I do have left I don’t want to spend working on something that I consider my hobby.

For clarification, semi-retired means I have no visible sign of financially taking care of myself but would work part time at a job that would not require my daily presence or even a weekly commitment. No, I just want to show up when I have nothing else to do and always check on a semi-monthly basis to see if my paycheck was direct deposited to my account. It would also have to be a management job, I don’t want to work on a line.  I am finding it is not the work I am missing; it is the lack of money to spend on things when I want to acquire them. I want to live the American dream-get money for not working, medical attention for free when I need it and never pay taxes again. Semi- Retired, by Doug Metcalf.

But I digress, as usual. I was going to sit down and write a novel, a best seller, one found at the top of the New York Times Best Seller list and stay there for 14 weeks. One that would take me to every Barnes and Nobel bookstore in the country for a book signings for my admiring public. My publicist would be in charge of scheduling my time so I could appear on all of the national talk shows and news programs and not forget which one is for today and which place I would have to be at tomorrow. I would be spending a lot of time in my jet as I try and make tomorrows engagement in some place my secretary has me scheduled. Every library would have their copy of my novel always checked out and there would be a waiting list of admirers who would be willing to wait for the 185 people ahead of them to finish it so they could move up on the list. Yep, that was what I was going to do, just a few minutes ago. Write a novel.

Let’s see: as I look around, I don’t see evidence of the start of any outline, or a pile of notes that would propel me into this new venture. There is nothing showing the title of this masterpiece, nothing hinting at what I am going to write about. No main character, no setting or time frame, nothing resembling the START of this next working literary icon. Nope, nothing. Maybe if I sit here a while something will come to me and in a stroke of genius an idea will pop into my head and all of the questions will be answered and I will be drawn out of my comfy lounge chair and be forced by desire to sit down at my computer and put the words on paper that have so long been hidden and pent up with excitement to be exposed to an awaiting public. You see, all of the great works of literature are within my computer; they just need to be set free by my genius.

I know! I could incorporate my newfound fondness of photography into my writing, thus adding pages along with interest in this new novel. I would have to get better at the photography part, buy maybe my brilliance in the written word would cushion the lack of polished photography. Even mediocre pictures would add a flavor not found in a lot of other books, it would be a means of further explaining what was happening in the accompanying words. Not a lot of pictures, that would take time away from my relaxing, but just enough to enhance an already brilliant piece of prose. Maybe not my best idea. I’ll sit here a little longer and let’s see what else may pop up.

Nothing. Nope, nothing comes to mind.

So here is where I am, right now. I have just gone over what I have said so far and I am afraid it sounds a lot like Donald Trump, or an old Herters catalog, even PT Barnum. In other words, not real words that I would say if we were sitting over a cup of coffee. I am beginning to rethink this whole idea of being a novelist. It seems to be a lot of work, something I don’t really want right now; and doing something that is not really me. You see, I am still that flannel shirt type of guy who just wants to sail through life without a criminal record, pay my bills with money I have saved and have a dog that loves me for who-and-what I am and has no intention of making me what I am not. Bottom line, this whole novel thing does not seem like a great idea right now. Maybe in a few years the timing will be better and the next great American novel will be born and be ready for it’s creation. But not today.

So it is back to the easy chair, pop up the footrest and prepare for the football game on TV. Probably will take a nap somewhere along the way, have a snack or two that I don’t need and contemplate what I consider to be a pretty darn good life. So if I am going to continue to write, let it be about something I know something about. As I get older, I find I know a lot of stuff about things no longer important to anyone but me. I am no longer a great contributor to society; I just hope I am not a leach on it. I will, time-from-time sit down and share an idea with you that tickles my fancy at the time. It may be about something that has no appeal to you at all. On the other hand, it just might make you see yourself in the story and make you smile while saying, “I can relate to that”. You see, all I try and do is envision you are sitting there, across the table from me with a cup of coffee nearby and talking about life as we know it. After all, the day will be coming when you will be talking about memories you have about me to someone other than me when I can no longer share in the conversation. My wish is that the memories are good for both of us, about both of us and that day will be a long way off. Until then The Novel will have to wait. Today, it is just my ramblin’s, once again. See ya next time. Call anytime, I am not so busy I can’t take a break for an old friend.

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