It’s Good!
Maybe I’m getting old.
My beautiful wife mentioned that perhaps there’s such a thing as male menopause.
Maybe that’s it, but I’ve done something unusual.
You see, I started writing books at the age of 22. For the last 32 years, I’ve worked on one thing after another with hardly ever taking much of a break.
I have 13 published, 2 more fairly complete, about 5 that I wrote and sat on, and about 7 or 8 that I thought about, outlined and wrote a bunch of pages. Sometimes I think about picking those up again.
The very first one I ever wrote is about 400 pages long. It’s under my bed, all printed out. I never sent it anywhere.
I wonder what that looks like!
Thing is, I’ve never once reread any of them. I was never tempted to, even when someone presented me with an award, or when people reached out to praise my work.
A few weeks ago, I read, “In Real Life” and I enjoyed it.
So, I picked up another one:
“Everything I Know.”
My most recent publication. I wrote it 2-3 years ago.
Then immediately moved on.
Someone once told me that you should celebrate your success before working on the next one.
I’ve never once taken that advice.
And here we are.
It’s weird to say, and I’m not being conceited. I never truly cared, but I read it as a reader.
I have favorite authors.
Stephen King, John Sandford, Pat Conroy, John Irving and of course, John Steinbeck.
I read my book as if I was picking up one of theirs.
And I can say...
...feeling only slightly weird about it...
...that it’s a very good book.
Yet, I sound like a dopey bastard saying that to someone.
“No! I try to explain. I’m not being arrogant! I don’t remember crafting it!!”
There are hidden things...
...there is foreshadowing and irony and good characters who I really care about...
...as a READER!
I’m thinking I keep going.
I might try “Nobody’s Home” next.
But I’ll tell you one thing:
Read “Everything I Know.”
It’s pretty dang good!
My beautiful wife mentioned that perhaps there’s such a thing as male menopause.
Maybe that’s it, but I’ve done something unusual.
You see, I started writing books at the age of 22. For the last 32 years, I’ve worked on one thing after another with hardly ever taking much of a break.
I have 13 published, 2 more fairly complete, about 5 that I wrote and sat on, and about 7 or 8 that I thought about, outlined and wrote a bunch of pages. Sometimes I think about picking those up again.
The very first one I ever wrote is about 400 pages long. It’s under my bed, all printed out. I never sent it anywhere.
I wonder what that looks like!
Thing is, I’ve never once reread any of them. I was never tempted to, even when someone presented me with an award, or when people reached out to praise my work.
A few weeks ago, I read, “In Real Life” and I enjoyed it.
So, I picked up another one:
“Everything I Know.”
My most recent publication. I wrote it 2-3 years ago.
Then immediately moved on.
Someone once told me that you should celebrate your success before working on the next one.
I’ve never once taken that advice.
And here we are.
It’s weird to say, and I’m not being conceited. I never truly cared, but I read it as a reader.
I have favorite authors.
Stephen King, John Sandford, Pat Conroy, John Irving and of course, John Steinbeck.
I read my book as if I was picking up one of theirs.
And I can say...
...feeling only slightly weird about it...
...that it’s a very good book.
Yet, I sound like a dopey bastard saying that to someone.
“No! I try to explain. I’m not being arrogant! I don’t remember crafting it!!”
There are hidden things...
...there is foreshadowing and irony and good characters who I really care about...
...as a READER!
I’m thinking I keep going.
I might try “Nobody’s Home” next.
But I’ll tell you one thing:
Read “Everything I Know.”
It’s pretty dang good!
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