C'est La Vie

I’m done! I finished writing my novel about the internment of the ethnic Japanese during World War II. When I typed the last sentence I was overjoyed, because for more than two years several hours of almost every day was spent working on the beast.

My first novel, A Tattered Coat Upon A Stick, was a joy to compose as I was proving to myself that I could do it, that I was, at least in some sense, a novelist. I looked forward to creating another story to demonstrate that I wasn’t a one trick pony and, of course, to make tons of money and reap the glory that goes with being a successful novelist.

It quickly became obvious that agents and publishers are not quite as interested in superannuated novelists as they are first timers straight from campuses. Not one person in the industry would read even a single chapter, not a page, not a paragraph, not a line, a sentence, even a word. How could they not even consider one of the great books of the new century? Easy!

Undeterred - there is some question about the sanity of the author here – I began another story. This time too, the words flowed and the novel took shape. Au Revoir, L’Acadie emerged after more than two years of hard work, and I was satisfied.

In the meantime, new technology came along, and I self published the first novel. I was greatly heartened when it sold almost a thousand copies and I made a profit sufficient to throw a pizza party for my grandchildren.

Heartened by my great financial success, I prepared to forgive the literary agents and publishers and magnanimously offered them a second chance to discover the next Ernest Hemingway. Oh well, you can lead a horse to water…

Quite by chance, I learned of Publish America, a company that actually produces books by people like Wild Bill, not mid-listers but rather off the bottom of the chart performers. They accepted the document and the rest is history – not important history but a record of someone having faith in my work. This book sells at about the same pace as the first, so another pizza party was in order and was enjoyed by all.

Truly, I was on a roll. Royalties are pouring in and it appears that Pizza Hut will be hosting an annual event for the kiddies. I am a professional novelist. While my hourly rate of return is a little below the U.S. minimum wage - by a factor of at least twenty, still I’m paid. Is it possible that I could sue somebody for back wages? In thinking about it, the target would be me, so litigiousness should probably be stifled.

After these successes, I still felt that the literary establishment did not appreciate what was there right before their eyes and decided to write still another spellbinder. By this time, I had an M.O. I had my story – its’ about the internment of the Japanese

The book chronicles the war time experience of an army lawyer who is caught up in the internment. Most of the stories about this dark event have been told from the perspective of the victims. Their sad tales have inspired many books and will motivate writers far into the future, but I thought that someone should describe what happened to those charged with implementing Executive Order 9066 that they believed was immoral and illegal.

Things are looking up, the first agent contacted agreed to consider it - CONSIDER. While it may get little more attention than its predecessors, it has done better than them already.

The purpose of this posting is twofold. I can’t tell you how exhausting writing this third novel was. The relief felt when the last draft was finished was almost beyond description – a ridiculous admission from a professional writer. I never wanted to see the document again. While I knew that was silly, that’s how I felt. I never wanted to face another word processor.

I played a round of golf the following morning, never feeling freer of guilt for not having plugged away at the novel. The relief was amazing.

The second day without obligation, I hung around the house. The editor kept looking at me in a strange manner. "What are you doing in the kitchen? Get down in your hole where you belong!"

After a week something big dawned on me, I was bored and had nothing to do. What to do? A writer writes, so I descended into the pit and confronted the key board. The Blog! That’s it, the Blog. Instead of once a week as I’d been Doing as the book took shape, the Blog became a several times per week event again.

But it wasn’t enough. An old man has to putter; some of them garden. That was my favorite pastime for years, but now my little patch is but twenty by twenty, half of that a brick patio. I’m not handy; my lack of talent with tools is the stuff of family legends. I play golf once a week and have no desire to pick up the pace.

What to do? What could Wild Bill do to keep the synapses firing? Why, write a novel! Good God, no, not another three year commitment! But it’s all I know – all I can do. After ten Blog postings slamming George Bush, I tired of picking on him – at least on a daily basis. Besides, there is a great need to be met. If those pizza parties are to be the success I dream there must be an infusion of royalties. You can’t expect grandchildren to praise dear old dead Grampa if they can’t have coke with their slices, and they are getting restless having to order only plain cheese toppings.

So for the sake of the kiddies, I must get down to work. For the last couple of days, I’ve been tossing around some ideas. I’m dreaming again; maybe there could be ice cream after the pizza and coke.

More important, the editor wants me out of the kitchen.

Blog on!

Wild Bill