All Posts Tagged: Wandering West
The Challenge and The Reward of Writing Wandering West
I was asked some time ago to explain the challenges and the rewards of writing Wandering West. Well, writing fiction is both challenging and rewarding–period. I think virtually all writers of fiction will attest to that. It is a grueling process. Writing fiction challenges the soul, if you will. For me, it is taxing emotionally. It requires such attention to detail, such a focus and a commitment, that I tend to become obsessed with my work. (Don’t take my word for it; ask my wife!) I tend to live within the bubble of the story with my characters until the last word is hammered out, and then, for a little longer still. Not until the story is complete do I feel any real sense of satisfaction, any real sense of achievement. Actually, it’s an overwhelming sense of relief that I experience at that point. Here I’ve created this monster and finally–finally–I can put it to bed! Did I mention that writing is a grueling process? That goes double for writing fiction.
So why do it? Why get up in the middle of the night–maybe repeatedly, night after night, month after month–to jot down a thought, to correct an incongruity, to change this, to improve that, etc.? Life is too short, and life offers up enough misery without creating that of my own making. Maybe so, but, for me, the rewards more than make up for these challenges. I think virtually all writers of fiction will agree with me when I say that the creative process itself is what I find so rewarding. It’s what makes writing fiction so worthwhile. The creative process is what drives me. It can send a lightning bolt flashing through my veins like few things on this Planet Earth–except for, well, maybe a lightning bolt. I really do get a charge out of fleshing out a character, working out a scene, and ultimately, building a storyline. It’s my thing, as they say.
But the question was: what did I find challenging and rewarding about writing Wandering West specifically? Well, specific to Wandering West, there is a hospital scene in the first third of the story that, I think, illustrates this idea of writing fiction being both a challenge and a reward. This scene was difficult for me to write emotionally. It is rather autobiographical in many respects, and so was a little painful to get into. But once I did, the words flowed as fast as my fat, arthritic fingers (Yes, that’s rather autobiographical, too, where Jack Stiler is concerned.) could hammer them out on the keyboard. Writing truly is the spontaneous overflow of human emotion, as Wordsworth put it. For me, writing this scene was evidence of that. I meant this scene to be poignant, and after reading it for the upteenth time, I think I succeeded. I hope so anyway. It still moves me.
For those who have read Wandering West, I hope that scene moved you, too. If you haven’t yet picked up the book to read it, well, as I often write on this blog, while you’re here, you might as well click onto the book section and make a purchase. And let me know what you think.
Epigraph to Wandering West
Among the multitude of Europeans to wander west to America in the Nineteenth Century was a teacher and poet from Lisburn, Ireland by the name of Henry McDonald Flecher. It is his poem, The Homeless, taken from his book, Odin’s Last Hour, that serves as my epigraph to Wandering West. I discovered it while searching for just the right quote to put at the beginning of my book. When I read it, I knew it was the one. Flecher was not just any poet. He was a renowned poet of his day, honored, alongside Tennyson, by Queen Victoria. An interesting tidbit about him is his claim, privately at least, that Tennyson stole a few of his verses. Whether that is true or not, well, who can say? Maybe Tennyson would argue that Flecher plagiarized a few of his lines. Maybe it was a case of sour grapes, for Tennyson, as we all know, became world renowned and of historic literary significance. None of it really matters now, other than to provide an interesting footnote to an interesting life. After teaching at a small college in Connecticut for a time, Flecher made his way to Blossom, Texas, where he taught Physics and Metaphysics at Lamar College. He continued to write, having published several volumes of prose and poetry, until his death in 1902.
Why am I blogging about some Irish poet who virtually no one has heard of and who died so long ago? What’s the point? So what if I used one of his poems as a lead-in to Wandering West? Big deal. I might well have found one of Tennyson’s to use. Who cares? Who reads poetry anyway? Well, in my own small way, I wanted to honor this man, that’s why, pure and simple. You see, I wouldn’t be here without Henry McDonald Flecher. He is my great-grandfather.
For those who have yet to read Wandering West, here is its epigraph:
. . . All too busy, all too eager
Hunting pleasure, grasping gain,
To regard that form so meager
Drooping in her drought of pain . . .
Hearts to love her, homes to shelter,
Let the lonely wanderer find,
Screen her from the storms that pelt her,
From misfortune’s rain and wind.
—“The Homeless,” from
Odin’s Last Hour
by Henry McDonald Flecher
For those who have read Wandering West, I think you’ll agree: The Homeless is a fitting, thematic introduction to my novel. If you haven’t read the story, please do. And while you’re at it–after you’ve purchased Wandering West here on my website–you may want to mosey on over to Amazon or Barnes & Noble to pick up a copy of Odin’s Last Hour. Here’s a link: http://www.amazon.com/Odins-Last-Hour-Other-Poems/dp/1174557494
It’s food for thought.
Elevators, Speeches and Wandering West
My first conversation with the publisher’s marketing director for Wandering West was a little awkward to say the least. She asked me to give her my elevator speech. Believe me, I know all about elevator speeches. I give them all the time, where my financial advising business is concerned. If you want to know about a stock I like, my view on the markets, the economy, etc., I can spit something out by the time we move from the parking garage to the seventh floor. After nearly thirty years in The Bizz, I’ve been around the block a time or two. That doesn’t mean I necessarily have the answers. It just means I understand some of the questions, and to some of those, I may think I have at least a part of the solution.
But this is about my elevator speech for Wandering West. When the young woman from Lulu Publishing, in her sweet voice, asked me to explain what Wandering West is about–and to do it in thirty seconds–well, I stuttered and stammered my half minute into–finally–an admission that I wasn’t quite sure how to do that. I mean, heck, it took me 100,000 words–300+ pages–to tell the story, riveting yet poignant as it surely is. As I’ve explained in previous posts, I don’t enjoy being put on the spot about my writing, nor about much of anything else, for that matter. Who does? Moreover, my writing starts from a mood, a feeling if you will. I have to get my sea legs under me, my narrative voice at just the right pitch. From there, the characters are developed, and the storyline takes off like a Virgin Galactic flight into outer space. Hopefully, the flights will take off like my story does, for the passengers’ sakes.
So, what is my elevator speech, now that I’ve spat it out for the upteenth time? As they say, practice makes perfect, or in my case, almost functional. Close your eyes and pretend–no, don’t close your eyes. You can’t read the rest of this text if you do that. Pretend we’re in an elevator, soothing elevator music (naturally) playing softly from the speakers overhead. You have just asked–with great interest, mind you–what Wandering West is about.
And I clear my raspy throat to say: Wandering West is a contemporary, literary novel set in South Texas, in the rugged, desolate, rather inhospitable terrain, not far from the Mexican border. It’s about an older fellow, by the name of Jack Stiler, who has lost his beloved wife to cancer and his Wall Street career to a humiliating scandal. Jack returns home in a desperate attempt to save the family ranch from financial ruin–from the invasion of smugglers of people, guns, and drugs–in the midst of a drought of historic porportions–and, while battling to hold on to those he loves, he struggles also to save himself from the demons that torment him.
My elevator speech doesn’t really do justice to Wandering West, I don’t think. You’ll just have to click onto the book section of my website and order the book itself. I think you’ll be enthralled if you give it a good read. I tend to write better than I give speeches, in an elevator or otherwise.
Wandering West and the Christmas Spirit
Recently, I was asked what three words best describe Wandering West and its characters. I thought about it for a minute. How could three words possibly describe a book? Of course, no three words can really do that. At most, they can maybe capture the essence of a story. The essence of Wandering West is the enduring of life’s challenges, however insurmountable they may seem. So, my first inclination was to answer with the word ‘perseverance’ three times. That indeed is the heart of Wandering West. But on further thought, I decided another response to the question might as well be the words ‘faith, hope and love.’ God’s three gifts are what Jack clings to in his quest for redemption, in his struggle to overcome difficulty and in his search for peace and contentment.
That said, Wandering West is no Sunday School lesson for the kiddos. Far from it. Wandering West is a depiction of one man’s life–a mere glimpse of one man’s life–and we all know that life, even a mere glimpse, can be crude, brutal, unfair, sometimes cruel and, all too often, seemingly godless. Yet, without giving away too much of the story, let me just say that, in many ways, nonetheless, Wandering West captures the spirit of Christmas. As much as life is about persevering over difficulty, it’s also about having faith, hope and love. Without these three devine gifts, perseverance really has no meaning.
Merry Christmas, everyone, to you and to yours!
How I came to write Wandering West
Why did I write Wandering West? What inspired me? Or, to censor an old friend’s recent admonition, “What the heck were you thinking, putting yourself through such a gut-wrenching, thankless–self flagellating–process, and for what?” When the subject of my having written a book comes up, these are the immediate and inevitable questions I get. I generally stammer a bit, clear my throat and try my best to explain that writing–gulp–simply, is in my bones. I am compelled to express my life’s observations through writing fiction, as sometimes daunting and generally inefficient as that may be. Most people who know me aren’t aware that I have always been something of a writer. In my twenties, I wrote several novels, acquired a literary agent and endeavored to make writing fiction a career. After all, didn’t Faulkner get his writing career off the ground in his twenties? Didn’t Hemingway? Didn’t all writers worth anything? Ahh, to be so naive again. To put it bluntly, as an author, I was not yet ready for prime time. In my case, I hadn’t lived enough to develop the depth that my characters needed to write the type stories that inspired me. Besides, by my late twenties, I had a family to care for, and yes, better things to do than coop myself up in front of an IBM Selectric all day. Yes, I know. I’m dating myself now.
Life, as they say, got in the way, until recently. At the time, I was in one of my contemplative moods, something I am afflicted with all too often, I’m afraid. I was reflecting on my life, how I had gottten to this point. I was savoring the occasional minor victory and pining over the all-too familiar traumatic defeat. Where was I headed, now that I could actually glimpse–however blurry the view–old age on the horizon? It was, after all, in the not-distant-enough future. It dawned on me that any ordinary person, placed in an extraordinary circumstance, confronted with the realization of growing older, would have a story to tell. I had this image of an older guy wandering toward the sunset–the sunset of his life, if you will. The title, Wandering West, then popped into my head. I knew immediately that I would write this aging man’s story, or at least give a stab at it to see how it developed. Once I fleshed out Jack Stiler’s character, at least in my mind, the story took on a life of its own. That’s generally how I have always written. I develop characters and let them tell the story. In the beginning, this is nothing more than a vague concept, a feeling or a mood more than anything. I have no elaborate outline, detailing this and that. I can’t work that way. I’m as surprised as anyone when I get to point D from point C in the story. For me, that’s what keeps it fresh and alive. As a writer, I get hooked the way I hope the reader does. In the case of Wandering West, I completed the story in three to four months, a rather quick pace in light of my previous writings. I think this one was champing at the bit to get out. If you’ve already read Wandering West, pardon the pun. If not, get to it! Click on the purchase button in the book section of this website. And thanks!
Prologue
Carefully, with the aid of the walker, I stepped out of the narrow shower, towel dried my sagging shell of a body, and then, steeling myself against the lingering pain, I moved to sit at the edge of the bed. I had been able to dress myself since yesterday morning, almost twenty-four hours ago, after my last shower. I opened the drawer to the nightstand beside the bed and took out the last fresh pair of Jockey underwear. Gingerly, as if lassoing a steer, I reached down in a tossing motion to loop the left leg hole of the garment over the left foot. Once I had the foot corralled above the ankle, I was able to reach down far enough to dip my right foot inside the right leg hole. With a grunt, I worked the underwear up to my saggy waist. The simple act of dressing to this point still had me breathing heavily, as if I had run in an all-out sprint to the nurse’s station and back. I rested for a minute and then managed to dress in the khaki slacks that had been laid out on the bed beside me. Fortunately, I had brought Topsiders to wear home. I had also sprinkled talcum powder inside the shoes. My feet easily slipped in.
My beard was still soft and moist from the shower. With the walker, I pulled myself back onto my feet and shuffled my way to the sink and mirror a short distance away. I could stand and balance myself without the aid of walls, furniture, or the walking device now. I folded and then leaned the walker against the wall beside me. My toiletries were packed in the black shaving kit next to the sink. I took out the shaving cream and applied a mound to my fingertips. While waiting for hot water to flow from the faucet, I studied the image in the mirror. The puffy face of middle age had given way to a thinner look, the bone structure of a younger man ironically displayed behind the droopy cheeks. What once had been a beard of dark reddish stubble was now completely white, and what once had been a smooth, lightly tanned neck was now a ruddy accordion of wrinkles. Tiny veins wiggled just under the skin of my nose and chin. The ravages of a full life were already telling. Even my best feature, the blue eyes, were washed out and cloudy where they peered out from heavy lids. How strange, it seemed, that something so gradual as the physical transformation from aging would so abruptly manifest itself as it lately had. It was as though the subconscious could no longer hold back the facts that had been so apparent to everyone else.
My face came alive with the menthol of the shaving cream. The new sharp, double-bladed razor felt good raking across my jaw for the first time in days. I was thinking how nice it would be to get back home when the nurse walked into the room. She was a tall, big-boned woman with strong yet gentle hands. I had seen her for the first time just an hour or so ago, when she massaged away a cramp in my right foot. I dreaded her reappearance. She had worked hard to strike up a conversation.
“Am I pronouncing your name right?” she asked, picking up the hospital gown I had tossed on the tile floor before showering. “Mr. St—is it a long ‘I’ sound or a short ‘I’?”
“Long,” I said. “Like you see with your eye.”
“Mr. Stiler,” she said, dropping the gown onto the bed. “Right?”
“Right. Jack Stiler.” I finished shaving the left side of my face and started on my right.
She nodded with a smile. “I’m Hilda. I think I told you that earlier. Hilda Heinsohn. It’s German. My family’s from New Braunfels. They were some of the first settlers to come here from Germany. From the old country.”
I smiled back through the mirror and then guided the double blades beneath the right side of my nose. “Where’s Mark?”
Hilda began gathering my personal belongings in a plastic bag she had discovered in the tiny closet. “He ran down to grab your paperwork from the front desk. And to get a wheelchair so you can leave. You did arrange for a ride home this morning, right? You told me that earlier, didn’t you?”
“They should be getting here before too long.” I rinsed stubble down the sink drain, rinsed the razor under running water, and placed it inside the shaving kit. After rinsing the excess shaving cream off my face and neck, I located my blue knit shirt hanging across the towel bar and slipped it on. I rummaged through the shaving kit until I found my brush. Before giving up on the unruly, thinning gray hair, I attempted several times to comb it in place. “I don’t need a wheelchair,” I then said, and I shuffled back to sit on the bed, leaving the folded walker behind.
“Look at you,” Hilda said as if she were admiring the first steps of a child. “But you know it’s policy, Mr. Stiler.”
“Oh I know. Fine.”
“Stiler,” she said, thinking. “That rings a bell.”
“Just one?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Are you the one they’ve been talking about in the paper and on the news lately?” “Well—”
“You’re the one they’ve been calling the Wall Street cowboy, aren’t you?”
I had to chuckle at the thought. “Wall Street cowboy might be a stretch.”
“But you’re him, aren’t you, Mr. Stiler?”
“Well, some people on Wall Street used to say I was too much of a cowboy, and some people around here say I’m too much of a Wall Streeter.” I chuckled again. “Actually, I’m not much of either.”
“Wow,” the nurse said, “I’ve been trying to keep up with all the things that have been happening. You’ve had quite an interesting few months recently, haven’t you?”
“You’d have to know a good chunk of my life to put the past few months into context,” I said.
“That’s always the case, isn’t it?” When I didn’t answer, she added, “Well, sit tight, Mr. Stiler. May be awhile before Mark gets back with the chair and your ride gets here.”
I watched Hilda walk out of the room as I moved into the vinyl recliner with the flowery pattern next to the bed. I settled into the chair, leaning it back as far as it would go, and closed my eyes. It felt good to be out of bed yet off my feet. Hilda was right. The past few months had been interesting indeed.