In learning to write one true sentence, Hemingway was chiseling away the rock that was his outer shell, and revealing his true being. He was striving to reveal his inner core and the hell of it is, is that he had no choice but to engaged in the impossible task all alone. The young man who would come to write unmistakably stylized classic like Big Two-Hearted River, A Farewell to Arms, For Whom the Bell Tolls, and The Old Man and the Sea, would reflect this battle with the individual self in his anti-hero characters who will have no choice but to fight and die alone, and do so "tragically." This individual battle with the self to write one true sentence is precisely the process my son is just starting to go through, and that I still go through every day when I place a pencil to a blank sheet of paper or face the infinite blankness of the computer screen. This sense of not knowing what will happen, and having no one to depend upon other than yourself to make it happen. That's what it means to write one true sentence, and it doesn't surprise me in the least that an MFA in Writing Prof would miss the point entirely.
It's a frightening reality contemplating the day when that one true sentence won't come anymore. For Bear, that doesn't seem to be a possibility while he spends his days learning his craft and mortality to him is at best a vague concept. It doesn't for me either, as I enter into my middle years and hopefully, my stride as a prolific author and journalist. What I worry about more are the later years, when our faculties fail us as human beings, and the writing, which takes as much emotional, mental, and physical strength as it does creativity, doesn't come as easily. That time when we face the void and the void wins out.
In the early summer of 1961, Hemingway the man of blood, bone and flesh, was beginning to fail. And it took a toll on his ability to write his "one true sentence." In his own words spoken with tear-filled eyes to his then private doctor, George Saviors, MD, Papa sadly admitted, "It just won't come anymore, George."
That's when Hemingway performed the last, most truest final act of his life by placing both barrels of a shotgun inside his mouth, pressing them up against the soft upper palate, and thumbing back the triggers.
—2011
Write What You Know (A Father's Day Essay!)
What's the first thing you learn in Creative Writing 101?
"Write what you know!"
For young authors who haven't yet experienced a whole lot of life, that can be a rather daunting idea. but for those of us who have been around the block a few times, there's always a story or two we can write about, such as the night I spent alone in a Sing Sing prison cell, or the time I was stranded in the jungle in Benin, Africa, after our 4X4 bit got stuck in a swamp.
But then, sometimes you don't have to look too far in order to tap into a life experience. Sometimes you just have to take another look at the way you were raised. In my case, I was raised in a family of construction workers. And by the time I reached puberty, my dad's business had taken off to a level where he went to work in pressed trousers and button-down oxford instead of jeans and work boots. In fact, my dad's business began doing so well, he groomed me for taking over the business one day.
Truth be told, the grooming began very early on. I helped my dad lay out a new church he was contracted to build at age 5. I still recall holding the tape measure for him while he recorded the measurements in his notebook. At around age 12 I was in charge of recording telephone quotations should he be bidding a big job during my summer vacations. At 15 I worked on my first job-site and stepped on a sixpenny nail that impaled itself through my foot. At 20 I was assigned to the office where I read blueprints and helped expedite projects. By 23 I was managing construction jobs worth $6 million or more. That's when I quit to become a full-time writer.
My dad was heartbroken, but not disappointed. After all a dad only wants his kid to be happy, right? And he was happy for me that I'd found something to be as passionate about as he was his business. All he worried about was my being able to make a living, so when books like THE INNOCENT and THE REMAINS became bestsellers, he jumped for sheer joy higher than I did.
But all is not lost on my having essentially experienced an entire career in the commercial construction business. I put it to use in my new thriller, CONCRETE PEARL, starring brassy but bold construction business owner, Ava "Spike" Harrison. How did she get the nickname Spike?
Well she stepped on a sixpenny nail of course, first day out on a real construction job-site. When it comes to writing what you know, the apple should not fall far.
But I appreciate all that my dad did for me when I was growing up and trying to find my way, the least of which is giving me a real insiders look at a world of builders, designers and architects that remains fascinating to me, even if I no longer carry a hammer or work on blueprints. Oh, and as for Spike, she's not only a builder, she's an amateur woman sleuth who carries a framing hammer as an equalizer instead of a gun . . . you might want to kiss her, but you sure as hell don't want to mess with her.
Happy Father's day, Dad! Oh, and thanks!!!
—2011
So What Are You: Indy or Anal?
If I had a nickel for every time I got asked the question, "Are you a seat-of-the-pants kind of writer or a planner?" In other words, am I bull who just barrels ahead without mapping out my scenes ahead of time in the hopes of allowing my story to form naturally or what all the no-gluten-professor geeks at writing school call, "organically?" Or do you actually write up character sketches that include everything from place of birth to bathroom habits, and then map out each chapter detail for detail?
The answer I give is not really an answer.
"It depends on the book," I tell them. "And it also depends on the character."
If I'm writing a book like THE REMAINS that's intended to be stand-alone literary thriller that contains subject matter such as identical twins, modern art and autistic savants and that is also told from the P.O.V. of a women, you can bet your bottom ten-spot that I'm gonna plan it out ahead of time. I'm also going to do some meticulous research so that those Brown Shirt sabotage reviewers on Amazon don't try and crucify me yet again (Screw 'em!). In the end if I've done my job right and the writing is convincing enough, I just might have a bestseller on my hands. And THE REMAINS has been just that. A bestseller for over a year (And many thanks to those who have reviewed responsibly and spent precious time writing mature and critically appreciated reviews. I love you!)
But if I'm writing a novel like one of the Dick Moonlight Serials, now that's another story altogether. The Richard "Dick" Moonlight of MOONLIGHT FALLS, MOONLIGHT MAFIA, and the forthcoming MOONLIGHT RISES and MURDER BY MOONLIGHT is a total train wreck of a guy. He's got a little piece of .22 caliber bullet lodged inside his brain from a failed suicide attempt. The piece has lodged itself right beside his cerebral cortex causing him the occasional short term memory lapse and lack of judgement, especially under times of stress, which is usually always. He drinks too much, and he can also pass out at any time or even suffer stroke, coma and death. In a word, Moonlight has no clue if he'll be alive from one minute to the next. So his relentless search for right over wrong is always an unplanned adventure. Since he narrates all of his own stories, I feel the best way to write his books is to do so by the seat-of-my-pants. And thus far anyway, you loyal readers of mine (you know who you are), have sort of fallen in love with the dude. And that's a cool thing since he's the character who is most like me.
So what's the best way for you to write your book?
Remember when you'd ask you mom or dad what was for dinner, and not having decided on anything yet, they might ask you in return, "Well what do you feel like?" A lot of what we decide to put in our body is based not only on a craving but more so on what our bodies are lacking at that time. If we're protein starved we want meat or chicken. If were worn out and carb poor, we want pasta or even pizza.
It's the same with writing. Listen to your body and your brain, but most of all listen to your gut. Not your gut mind you, but the gut inside your main character. Is he or she
someone who will want to be guided and reigned in? Or is he or she someone who won't plan for the next five minutes much less two afternoons from now?
Just remember, writing is a personal venture and there is no right or wrong way to do it. There is only just doing it.
—2011
The Meaning of Life
Life is all about change.
That's no secret.
We should be changing every day if we are to grow as human beings. We don't need constant radical change, because that's not cool. There's got to be some semblance of stability in the life if we are to be healthy enough to experience positive change. See how that works?
But there are times in our lives when radical change does occur through no fault of anyone or anything other than time catches up. In my case, my oldest son, Jack, is about to turn 21 in late October, and my lease on the apartment I've had now in North Albany for six years will expire on the same day as the young Turk's birthday: October 31 . . . Halloween.
What all this means is I am now faced with not a choice, but choices. Let me back up a bit here. Six years ago, my second wife and I split up amicably after only 36 months of marriage amidst some serious life choices (there's that word again) that we could not begin to agree upon. But just to give you a hint, she wanted to pursue more of a life in the suburb and grow a family (when we agreed to tie the knot we also made a pact: no children. But she changed her mind!).
She also was pressuring me to leave the novel writing business and to get a real job since I was going through a terrible publishing dry spell. Her parents were relentlessly angry with my decision to continue writing novels, especially after putting up the money for a down payment on a house in the burbs (a down payment and a house I never asked for).
Knowing the situation was impossible, we decided a split would be better now as friends than to have an acrimonious one down the road. However, we shared a daughter who'd become the light of both our lives. Despite my pursuit of all things literary and my itchy desire to travel and gain new experiences both as a journalist and novelist, I wanted that little girl in my life. That in mind, I begged my ex to simply pack up the baby and join me on my adventures. But she would have none of it. So my sons and I left our home, and at her father's insistence, she had the locks changed.
Fast forward six years: Recently, my ex approached me with her desire to pull up stakes and move to California where she would be with her best friend and start a new clothing store. She's unhappy here and desperately wants to get out. Would I stop her from leaving? No, of course not. I just want her to be happy too. Would I follow her there? Would we perhaps reconcile and try to fix our broken relationship?
For a brief moment or two, I actually panicked and at one point broke up with the woman I was seeing since, how could I not follow my ex and our daughter to Cali, even if I have no desire to ever live there? My heartstrings were not being pulled, they were being torn out of my chest.
But then things calmed down, and my girlfriend took me back, and I began to realize that I have no control over my ex and her decisions. I also came to realize that if she wants to pack up and leave that's what she's going to do. My opinion on the matter isn't going to make an ounce of difference. We could always work out visits with our daughter. Heck, perhaps our daughter would like to come live with me at some point. Perhaps spend the summers with me. Time will tell.
But now, I have other things to consider.
My 17 year old son, Harrison (Bear), is still living with me. He's left school in the pursuit of seeing the world and writing his first novel. He will earn his GED, but his desire for a classical education is for now anyway, put on the back burner. I believe he's going to do very well. He has talent. Real God given talent. But much like Larry Darrell in The Razor's Edge, he's not at all comfortable with doing things just because you're expected to do them. He needs meaning behind his actions. He needs to know the meaning of life.
So, to make this too long story shorter: I have some choices here. I can either grab a new place to live in the country, further down south but within proximity of where my girlfriend teaches at a local college, so that a train ride to New York is only two hours. Or, I can rent an apartment in New York City where I feel I should be, as a writer. Or, I can move to Europe for a little while which is even further removed from NYC than California, only far way cooler and far less snottier.
In the meantime, Bear and I will head to Italy this week where I've rented an apartment in Florence for the rest of the summer. I need to do a little more research for a couple of novels I'm writing. The good news is that my job allows me to live anywhere that I want. Continued good sales on my books will ensure that. So does my ongoing relationship with my publishers. But the bad news is that choices can be hard to make sometimes. However, it beats the hell out of 9 to 5, work, TV, bed . . . work, TV, bed.
I'm hoping the answer will come to me in Italy next month, maybe while jogging along the Arno in the park, or while sitting outside the Duomo sipping a hot espresso. Or perhaps while climbing some steep terra firma in the Tuscan hills. Perhaps the answer is right before my eyes: a nice place in the country not far from Albany which still places me in excellent proximity to NYC and only 6 hours to Europe.
No matter what decision I make, I will be writing very hard. I'm 47 now, in excellent health, and have reached a point in my life where I have even more time to see the world and to immerse myself in foreign countries and cultures, sort of like the ones I've already experienced in Africa, Russia, Turkey, China, and God knows where. Like Bear, I need to figure out the meaning of life. I need to see the Great Pyramids and Machu Picchu. I need to float down the Amazon in a raft carved from a tree. I want to wander the Saharan desert and I want to go on safari, and I want to photograph the famine in Somalia and perhaps the civil war in Libya. And I want to teach my sons and daughter how to do all of these things too. I want them to know that there is a life outside of the suburbs and that there is real meaning to it. But that life has to be lived before the code can begin to be cracked.
Whether I succeed in doing any of these things will be up to me. The choice is mine. It always has been mine to make. But there is sacrifice in some of these choices. My split from my second wife is perfect evidence of that. But we only go this route once, and we all deserve happiness.
The other day my ex told me she still doesn't know what she wants in life. She's 44 years old and planning a move to the Pacific coast and she doesn't know what she wants. I feel for her. She's not alone. She's a very sweet person and an even sweeter mother. My problem, I told her, is that I've always known precisely what I've wanted out of life. And that can sometimes make a man appear to be selfish. Or why don't I just call it like it is: The pursuit of the perfect life is indeed a selfish pursuit. And yes, at times it feels like I am walking barefoot along the razor's edge. A good life takes great change and choice and sacrifice. But I'll be damned if I can't live any other way.
—2011
Travels with Myself and Another
I don't often get to travel with my kids. Most of the time, I'm either on assignment or, more accurately, used to be on assignment before I pretty much started back on fiction full time. Or I'm looking for an escape in order to gather inspiration for a new novel. Or I'm simply looking to get the hell out, which is not uncommon for a guy like me who is always itchy (I think I've mentioned before that I never sit down and watch TV, and it's tough to get me to a movie).
So when the opportunity arose to bring my 17 year old son Harrison (we call him Bear) with me to Italy for the month of August for which I've rented an apartment in Florence, Italy, he and I both jumped at the chance. As some of you already know, Harrison is hoping to become a writer and for now anyway, he has traded in his traditional education for one of being self-taught and simply reading and writing (while he pursues a GED).
He also seems to be in search of the meaning of life these days and asking himself questions that many of us either choose to ignore or ru
n away from because they are so dangerous, the most obvious of which is: Am I really happy?
I may not always appear to be the best father to some people, but I know to others I am an exceptional father. I guess I fall somewhere in the middle. My life in unconventional at best but the love I have for my kids can't be defined in terms of convention of mandates, rules and mores or otherwise. It's simply an unconditional love no matter how often or not-so-often I get to see them.
Harrison and I will be living close quarters for the next month in a second floor downtown Florence apartment in a four-hundred year old building, that's spacious and breezy, with plaster walls, exposed wood ceiling beams, tile floors, French windows and doors, and a large terrace that supports an arbor. I will be writing my new novel and reading over the galleys for Moonlight Rises and Scream Catcher while outlining a new romantic suspense novel based upon one of my most anthologized and translated short stories. We will head to Rome, Pisa and Venice, and we will see the museums and eat the food and drink the drink. But mostly we will spend time together, getting to know one another, as father and son, and as writers.
(To be continued . . .)
—2011
How Art Changes Life
I have been noticing subtle changes in my son Harrison (Bear) as time moves forward during our month-long stay in Florence, Italy. He is not only paying attention to the art and architecture he views for the first time . . . David, Hermes Slays Medusa, the Duomo . . . he is trying to make sense of it all. He finds that the "classic" art has been able to capture the essence of its meaning and in most cases, it is devoid of abstraction. Not a band interpretation for the would-be writer.
Harrison has grown up in a post-post-modern world and is so used to viewing art as an abstraction. Now he is viewing murals and wall paintings that depict "nightmares" so accurately, it's as if he is experiencing them himself.
Pieces of Mind Page 9
