Today is Wednesday, August 13. On Sunday, Ill turn 72. Thats four days away, and Ive decided to write an autobiographical novel. Im starting just now. The time: the present. The setting: My front porch, which goes all the way across the front of the house, a two-story frame structure that was built in 1881 or 1882. The porch is shaped like the letter P, only the top of the P is squared off. Theres a round table that sits roughly in the middle of the D part of the P. My wife J. and I bought the table at a department store in a nearby shopping mall the summer I retired. That was two years ago: 2012. On the day I left, I was the oldest person in my office. We published a weekly business newspaper, and I had been editor for 11 years. We did 50 issues a year, and in 11 years, we churned out 550 issues. We did lots of stories, lots of photos, lots of headlines. (And occasional flubs!) The cast: Includes my son A., who has just come out on the porch for a smoke. Hes 40 and hes talking about asking his mother to shave all the hair off his head tonight. I read this copy to him as he puffs on a cigarette. He tells me to add that the table top is made of glass tiles -- tan -- two inches square. I think Im going to self-publish this novel piecemeal. On Facebook. Every day, at least for a while. I owe the idea to an interview I had last Friday with a novelist who writes mystery stories. He told me about a story he wrote about a hunter who had heart issues, and who wanted to go deer hunting one last time. I had trouble sleeping last night, and I thought about that old deer hunter. Its been seven years since my open heart surgery. As 72 approaches, it’s clear that Im closer to the end than to the beginning. Id really like to write an autobiographical novel. So here goes. I invite your comments. All feedback is useful, even if its not complimentary.
Posted on: Wed, 13 Aug 2014 21:14:00 +0000
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