As early as 1961, I contemplated writing an autobiographical novel, prompted by my interest in Jack Kerouac, Henry Miller and even Philip Wylie. My older brother offered to disown me if I even tried.Despite all negativity, I made a few halfhearted efforts, beginning in the mid 1960s and other times, variously, for thirty years. These attempts at literature were unfocused, and pathetic, even. Finally, about twenty years ago, I began to write up a few autobiographical pages, then whole chapters, which were saved in files. But, creating a cohesive narrative was an accomplishment which eluded me.Finally, I reached a point at which this work had endlessly stalled out any creative writing beyond this one silly volume. I might not get it completed. So, what? Shelve it and move on to other projects, or continue the struggle, despite my advancing old age?
Before I could decide, I hit on the notion to create a fictional side story that would carry the originally intended story. I made the narrative advance by having my older brother, Rusty, who had been murdered, in 1969, come walking into my yard, on a sunny day. A day in which I, a seventy plus year old man, labored at a mundane task, comfortable in my retirement. He threw a monkey wrench into my contentment, reviving our rivalry and accusing me of a terrible crime within the family.
From the beginning, it was clear that my abusive stepfather bore the blame as the primary cause of my life failures. I totally blamed him for my lack of social graces, for my silence before non family members, for my fear of promoting myself, even to secure a job. And Rusty I blamed for being an accomplice. Yet, Rusty had me on the defensive.
Another complication to finishing my book resided in my complex relations with my other siblings. After Sadie, our Mom, died, we lost all cohesion as a family unit. Some have grudges against me and some actually hate my guts. So I had another decision to make.
I am a man of peace. A pushover, in fact. To avoid further conflicts with the relatives that despise me, I deleted from the book as many references to living persons as possible. Considerably shortening the word count. I was left with a relatively short novel, but I took a chance peddling it and secured a contract with Black Rose Writing. Beyond the Dark Water is scheduled for print in April.
Before I could decide, I hit on the notion to create a fictional side story that would carry the originally intended story. I made the narrative advance by having my older brother, Rusty, who had been murdered, in 1969, come walking into my yard, on a sunny day. A day in which I, a seventy plus year old man, labored at a mundane task, comfortable in my retirement. He threw a monkey wrench into my contentment, reviving our rivalry and accusing me of a terrible crime within the family.
From the beginning, it was clear that my abusive stepfather bore the blame as the primary cause of my life failures. I totally blamed him for my lack of social graces, for my silence before non family members, for my fear of promoting myself, even to secure a job. And Rusty I blamed for being an accomplice. Yet, Rusty had me on the defensive.
Another complication to finishing my book resided in my complex relations with my other siblings. After Sadie, our Mom, died, we lost all cohesion as a family unit. Some have grudges against me and some actually hate my guts. So I had another decision to make.
I am a man of peace. A pushover, in fact. To avoid further conflicts with the relatives that despise me, I deleted from the book as many references to living persons as possible. Considerably shortening the word count. I was left with a relatively short novel, but I took a chance peddling it and secured a contract with Black Rose Writing. Beyond the Dark Water is scheduled for print in April.
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