Annoyed
I was sitting around again over the last hour or so brooding about an issue that has bothered me for about nine months now. (No, not anything to do with my daughter.)
For those of you who don't know, I have always toyed around with writing. Sometimes with greater success, and sometimes with less. Now for two years my wife and I have had a tradition that while we are winding down in the evening I will tell her a story. One of the initial such stories kept going for about eight months, while I detailed the events in the life of one woman and an ever expanding group of friends and family for about fifty years before it ended with her death.
I have gone on to tell other stories, but Martha and I had become so close with these characters that I began to write it down. I worked hard at it and put to paper the very smallest fraction of this epic story. It's the prologue to the greater story, although it is a story in itself and about the equivalent of three hundred published pages in length.
When I had begun this I would print it out piece by piece as I went along and my mother started reading it. She only read about the first twenty pages before she got distracted by other things, but I made a deal with her. I was going to give myself a deadline to finish the first draft by Christmas so that the two of us could really work together on it. I did to, more or less. In truth it required slapping an ending on I am not proud of, and leaving several areas that need some serious polish. I was happy though. We had a finished product to work on. So I thought anyway.
The only time any work was done on it was while I was in the hospital, and most of that involved me going over it while she sat there. The book just sat on her desk for three months gathering dust while I awaited her input.
In this time two of my co-workers repeatedly harassed me about letting them read it, so I finally took it from my mother (we were only able to print one copy before my mother's printer died) and I brought it to work to give to one of my co-workers. The one who had been more vocal about reading it, and the one who had already given me a great compliment when I had him proofread a small, sad section of the story and he told me he was almost ready to cry.
This would have been around March. He still has the book. He has still not said anything to me about it. It makes me so angry at points but there really isn't anything I can see myself doing about it. I get so pissed off when I think about it, but then when I am face to face with him I hide behind jokes to get a feel for things and try and figure out if I will ever see the book again. Why? Because he is such a nice guy and I don't want to hurt his feelings, even as I tear myself apart with the dark voice in my head saying that if it was enough to catch a reader's attention they wouldn't take this long.
Nobody seems to realize some of the unique components that go into this problem. First and foremost is the fact that all of these characters over so much of a time frame have become like friends and family. Friends and family who only live if someone reads about them. They have sometimes even touched me deeply. I wandered around saddened for a couple of days when one of the primary characters from the beginning died. Even though I did it (sort of) I missed her. An important note since she is in this first book and stays in throughout. It kills me to know that this story is going nowhere.
Some might say that I could hop on the computer and just go back to work on it. I could, but it would be difficult. You see, I did so much better in this oral story than any of my written experiences for one reason. I directly worked with my audience and got feedback. I had somebody right there sharing it with me. So I put it on paper and worked on sharing it with more and possibly touching more as we have been by these people. I did this and for all I know the pages grow mold at the bottom of a sock drawer. Maybe some accident destroyed it and he just hasn't been able to tell me yet. I wish he would. I wish I could just go up to him and say, "Are you going to read this or not, because either way I need my baby back soon."
I don't know. It is just so frustrating. And that's just life, or something close to it.
For those of you who don't know, I have always toyed around with writing. Sometimes with greater success, and sometimes with less. Now for two years my wife and I have had a tradition that while we are winding down in the evening I will tell her a story. One of the initial such stories kept going for about eight months, while I detailed the events in the life of one woman and an ever expanding group of friends and family for about fifty years before it ended with her death.
I have gone on to tell other stories, but Martha and I had become so close with these characters that I began to write it down. I worked hard at it and put to paper the very smallest fraction of this epic story. It's the prologue to the greater story, although it is a story in itself and about the equivalent of three hundred published pages in length.
When I had begun this I would print it out piece by piece as I went along and my mother started reading it. She only read about the first twenty pages before she got distracted by other things, but I made a deal with her. I was going to give myself a deadline to finish the first draft by Christmas so that the two of us could really work together on it. I did to, more or less. In truth it required slapping an ending on I am not proud of, and leaving several areas that need some serious polish. I was happy though. We had a finished product to work on. So I thought anyway.
The only time any work was done on it was while I was in the hospital, and most of that involved me going over it while she sat there. The book just sat on her desk for three months gathering dust while I awaited her input.
In this time two of my co-workers repeatedly harassed me about letting them read it, so I finally took it from my mother (we were only able to print one copy before my mother's printer died) and I brought it to work to give to one of my co-workers. The one who had been more vocal about reading it, and the one who had already given me a great compliment when I had him proofread a small, sad section of the story and he told me he was almost ready to cry.
This would have been around March. He still has the book. He has still not said anything to me about it. It makes me so angry at points but there really isn't anything I can see myself doing about it. I get so pissed off when I think about it, but then when I am face to face with him I hide behind jokes to get a feel for things and try and figure out if I will ever see the book again. Why? Because he is such a nice guy and I don't want to hurt his feelings, even as I tear myself apart with the dark voice in my head saying that if it was enough to catch a reader's attention they wouldn't take this long.
Nobody seems to realize some of the unique components that go into this problem. First and foremost is the fact that all of these characters over so much of a time frame have become like friends and family. Friends and family who only live if someone reads about them. They have sometimes even touched me deeply. I wandered around saddened for a couple of days when one of the primary characters from the beginning died. Even though I did it (sort of) I missed her. An important note since she is in this first book and stays in throughout. It kills me to know that this story is going nowhere.
Some might say that I could hop on the computer and just go back to work on it. I could, but it would be difficult. You see, I did so much better in this oral story than any of my written experiences for one reason. I directly worked with my audience and got feedback. I had somebody right there sharing it with me. So I put it on paper and worked on sharing it with more and possibly touching more as we have been by these people. I did this and for all I know the pages grow mold at the bottom of a sock drawer. Maybe some accident destroyed it and he just hasn't been able to tell me yet. I wish he would. I wish I could just go up to him and say, "Are you going to read this or not, because either way I need my baby back soon."
I don't know. It is just so frustrating. And that's just life, or something close to it.
posted by Wanderer at 7:19 PM
5 Comments:
Why can't you?
my author son arthur will be home soon with limited access to the net. he's done most of his story telling and writing in "the joint".
i bet you and he would have alot to talk about. trusting someone with a manuscript is somewhat like trusting someone with your child. I've done to my son what your mom has done to you sort of. I have a manuscript (three note books - hand written) that I was supposed to read and "edit" but I never finished them. I like the image of you sitting with your wife, and now your daughter can join you, as they listen to your stories...maybe a tape recorder could help. I mentioned you in my most recent blog posting. Just a word or two...blessings from New Mexico
MC, as well as we know each other in so many areas, it doesn't surprise me that you have to ask that question.
I'd offer to read it myself, but if I take on any more side projects my wife will have me summerily executed. Having been in a similar position myself, I somewhat know how you feel. I wrote a novelish piece when I was younger that I intended to take all the way, but it got destroyed by windows 95. Arg.
I thought I had written a novel once, because it had been very long, very robust, and difficult to get out correctly, but when all was said and done it turned out to just be a turd after eating WAY too much Special K cereal.
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