The Story That Refuses to Be Forgotten
The characters in my head are waiting for me to figure out what happens next—so am I.
Twenty years ago, if you couldn’t find my then-unmarried self at home in the evening, I was likely at Barnes and Noble. I could spend hours perusing the books in that place, reading a little from one and then another. Once I sipped the last of my café order, I knew it was time to leave, though never without making a purchase.
I was increasingly drawn to the writer’s reference section of the store. Specifically, I had become fascinated by the art of storytelling, which seems unusual in hindsight because I rarely read fiction. I typically left the bookstore with something on history, politics, or religion. I wasn’t a writer, either, unless you were to count mandatory assignments from my school days. I don’t have an explanation for my growing interest in the subject, but grow it did.
On one of my trips, I discovered a copy of Syd Field’s Screenplay. I recognized his name from other authors who lauded Field as a master of story structure. I read half the book before leaving the store, enthralled by its clarity regarding plot points and dramatic arcs. His examples from popular films made it easy to visualize the essential building blocks of a compelling story. By the time I arrived home, Screenplay in hand, I was inspired to write—not a movie, but a book.
During my earliest brainstorming sessions, I envisioned an imaginative retelling of Jesus’s parable of the prodigal son in Luke 15. Almost instantly, I knew three of the main characters. There was Daniel Grey, the story’s sarcastic, self-destructive protagonist. There was Daniel’s best friend, John Hall, the voice of reason. Or would he play the role of Daniel’s legalistic “older brother”? Then, there was Floyd, Daniel’s Obi-Wan Kenobi—an eventual mentor offering legitimate guidance between absurd, folksy one-liners. “Never trust a woman who sleeps with her socks on,” I could hear him say.
Other elements of the story were equally clear in my mind. First, I knew Daniel and John’s friendship would be tested, if not severed. Second, a place for Daniel’s father seemed necessary, though I wasn’t sure where during those early stages of planning. Third, Daniel would go to prison. In fact, I would later show his arrest in the opening scene of my very first draft. Fourth, the novel would conclude with a subtle twist. I might reveal that Floyd was an angel in disguise or that he never existed at all but was a fragment of Daniel’s imagination—his conscience speaking to him from deep within. Perhaps the crime that led to Daniel’s incarceration would be something other than anticipated. Who knows?
Two decades later, my visits to Barnes and Noble are infrequent, but my interest in storytelling and love for reading books on writing remain. Also, I’ve never completely abandoned Daniel’s story. It’s evolved over the years. Details have changed in my mind, with parts gaining much-needed clarity. My original vision, however, is still there—Daniel, John, Floyd, the prison, the surprise ending. Every now and then, I’ve had an itch to return to it, develop it further, and write a few pages. Then time passes, I get older, and my novel sits idle until the itch returns and I begin again.
I tell you this now because I’ve been scratching recently. I’ve jotted some fresh ideas and possibly found missing pieces to the puzzle I couldn’t locate before. This could be it, I thought. I might have a real story here.
To test my theory, I scribbled a draft of the first chapter in my notebook and passed it to my wife to read. While she’s far too kind and pure of heart to roast my work or provide serious criticism, I only asked that she give me an honest answer to one question: “If you knew nothing else about the book—which you don’t—would you keep reading beyond the first chapter?” Granted, I wrote it in a style for a genre she doesn’t ordinarily read, but she’s an avid consumer of fiction. She knows a boring story when she’s yawning her way through it. If she answered yes, I’d keep going. If no, well, I’ve lived this long without writing a novel.
I knew she was finished reading when she emerged from the bedroom skipping, laughing with glee, shouting her awe and wonderment at my incredible gift of prose, and—
I’m kidding. I found her asleep, with my manuscript still in her lap. On a positive note, she was near the end before she passed out. She woke soon after, read the last few paragraphs, and said, “Yeah, I’d keep reading.” She was only mildly convincing, but that’s before we factor in her utter exhaustion from a long day of wrangling kids, cooking, washing dishes, and folding laundry. If I had asked early that morning, her review might have been positively glowing. I’d like to think so, anyhow. Regardless, my wife gave me just enough affirmation to pursue this hobby a bit further.
And now, dear reader, I turn to you. Why not? I thought. I don’t have an agent or publisher awaiting my completed manuscript with bated breath, but I do have you. Plus, serialized fiction could be fun. Assuming I don’t wake up tomorrow to find an inbox full of messages begging me to stop publishing an offense to decent literature, perhaps I’ll keep writing the story, little by little, and tossing it out into the world. Love it or hate it, I welcome your honesty.
My forthcoming tale will blur the line between fact and fiction. The experts say, “Write what you know,” so I’ll do that. Yet I’ll also take advantage of not being constrained by the truth. In other words, I’m crafting a story loosely based on my real-life experiences but only loosely. I’ll leave you to ponder which details are accurate, which are exaggerated, and which have no basis in reality. It could be an amusing game.
Chapter one is coming soon. Enjoy.