I don’t quote Jesus often, but in giving title to this piece, I mean no offense to any who might think it irreverent to borrow his words in an unholy context. But OMG, in the reverent words of Martin Luther King, I am free, free at last.
Some months ago (seems like years), I casually said to my wife: “I am going to write a book … well, a novel or at least a story.” I don’t think she even looked up at first, being ironically engrossed in reading a book at the time. She is a voracious reader, preferring fiction mysteries, but with wide-ranging tastes. And I needed her help, not as a co-author, but as a reader with a discriminating eye. So I repeated my statement in some form and she looked up momentarily, and smiled, giving me that ember of hope, that embryonic seed of fiery inspiration that only a beloved companion can give: “That’s nice, dear.”
Of course, the above is mostly the fiction of an elastic memory. My wife Jeanne has been a patient and steadfast patron of this chapter of my life. She has made this possible; she has been my compass, allowing me to find my way.
Writing has always been an outlet for me, a tranquilizer and an analgesic, for the slings and arrows of life’s outrageous misfortunes. But also a silent celebration of happiness and beauty the world has gifted me, particularly when I have wanted to share it. And so I have.
The seed for writing my novel, A Lie Never Dies, came as a gift from my son, Hamilton, in the form of Stephen King’s book On Writing. Not that I am a great fan of his, but his book on the craft of writing inspired me, as did another gift from my daughter-in-law, Mindy. A Masterclass subscription gave me access to Dan Brown, Neil Gaiman, and Amy Tan. I considered naming them as my “teachers” in the dedication of the book, but even I found that pretentious.
And so my journey began and, like many idealistic quests, it had a romantic charm and led me down the road of discovery. Like all journeys, there were potholes among the epiphanies. Even those bumps in the road were enlightening.
And then it came time to pay the bill. OMG, again, I was in over my head in learning what it takes to put words to print. Even self-publication, comes with a learning curve with may blind corners. And it took months as I decided NOT to pay someone to do the onerous task of proofreading, editing, formatting and other punitive drudgery that is required to put words to print, in some readable form.
So it will no doubt have some warts and imperfections in its original form. They are mine and I beg your indulgences and hope they do not interfere with a simple tale of entertainment. I’d actually appreciate any feedback, especially constructive criticism, should you actually read it.
I had no intention of trying to write (the next) great American novel. After all, it’s a fictional story about an expatriate American who immigrates to Portugal in hopes of finding a better life, or at least a more exciting chapter. Ironically, my grandfather immigrated across the Atlantic 100 years ago and I find myself feeling somewhat like a sweater returned to a department store, one size too big (or small?) for the intended use. It is autobiographical only in reflecting on some of my experiences in finding myself (happily) a stranger, in a strange land. And the role chance plays when we come to those many forks in the road. I hope you will enjoy it.
now available through Amazon.com
Just bought it!
Just bought it and loving it.