When I first had the gumption to write my first novel, I never thought there would be so much work in the process of getting it off the ground. First, my arrogance that I could write a book. At all. Carrying around a healthy dose of self-confidence (ask anyone) is one thing, but the magnitude of sheer belief I had in embarking on the project was, looking back, quite astounding. Who did I think I was? And incidentally, now, with a couple book signings on the docket, who the hell do I think I am?
Writing The Silent Partner and getting it ready for public consumption has been the hardest task of my life, sans trying to get a re-fi loan for my last house. Truly, getting my bachelor’s degree was a cinch by comparison to writing this book, and that’s not a dig on the Cal State University system. (BTW, a shout out to my old writing professor, Alexis Krasilovsky. I still remember how you wouldn’t take a draft of mine because I was late turning it in . . . and how you said I’d never qualify for an “A” because of it. Oh, the memories.)
The amount of preparation it took me to write this book compared to what I surmise other writers have done–and haven’t needed to do–humbles me. It also calls into question my genetic deficiencies, as this is the first place I look upon such a revelation.
Writing courses, several writers conferences, multiple editors, hundreds of drafts . . . (“Oh, God, if they still hate it after all of this work, I should reconsider the next book’s desire to exist.”) Sleepless nights, lonely nights, overused playlists, an ill-practiced habit of daily designer-coffee, and the prices that go along with it . . . all adds up. (“You mean in the last 5 years I could have gotten not one, but two master’s degrees?”) Well, that’s just GREAT. Seriously, what was I thinking?
That moment I got my first book in the mail from the publisher. That crack of opening the cover for the first time, the chemicals and the paper and the ink and the glue . . . that smell of newness that I whiffed like when I first opened my first Motley Crue cassette (that’s right) in 1983 . . . and the story and characters that I created and evolved and improved and reshaped and reinvented . . . all is there. Every page.
I know, I know. You can’t smell it on the Kindle.