Most people are aware of their strengths and weaknesses. Many of us work conscientiously to improve where we can and take comfort in “what’s going well.” But . . . even at the ripe old age of 58, I find new opportunities to learn about myself and seize moments to grow. Even if reluctantly.
Take this scene, for example. My best friend, Stephen (OK, so he happens to be my husband, too), sits at the dining table next to me. I’m working on my new website—learning how to upload and edit, etc.—and he’s reading the first draft of my new novel. I printed it, three-hole-punched the 270+ pages, and put it in a black binder for him. Much easier to jot notes on a hard copy than “add comment” in a Word doc—at least for us old folks.
I’d asked him to read the first draft of my second novel, and he graciously agreed. I want his journalism-strong background to influence his edits. I respect his vast experience teaching American literature.
My eyes drift over to see what chapter he’s reading.
I believe in my heart of hearts that he will be honest and help me improve this draft so it can eventually become a book worthy of other people’s time. But holy shit! How many times can he circle something on that one page? What is he writing in the margin? How many sticky notes will he add to this binder by the time he’s done?
OK. So, I may need a minute to put my ego in my back pocket.
Being on the receiving end of this task is a little harder than I thought. This book is great! I love my characters and dialog. I know I need to tweak some things here and there, but come on! Put the pen down!
No. I need all the feedback he will provide. It’ll make the book better. I hate when I read other people’s books and there are blatant grammar or continuity errors. (I’m reading a book right now where the main character starts talking about how important the family dog is to her. Problem? She hasn’t mentioned the dog at all until now . . . on page 175!)
And so, I sit. As quietly as possible. Waiting. He flips pages. He jots more notes. I keep busy on my side of the table. Finally, Stephen says, “Wanna go over a few things?”
YES!
Ur, no….
OK.
We go into the living room. The next ten minutes are full of: “I wasn’t sure what you meant by ______,” and “In Chapter Three, your main character does __________, but what about the logistics of ________.”
UGH! I feel like I’m being grilled by a panel of interviewers in three-piece suits at a Fortune 500 company. Self-doubt and defensiveness cloud my reactions. An internal debate takes center stage: “Listen objectively to the critique;” “Maybe I shouldn’t bother finishing this book; it sucks;” and “Oh, yes, that’s a good point.”
Even coming from a gentle voice, a loving partner, the areas for improvement sting. I know that’s normal. I used to be an actress/singer-songwriter a long, long time ago. Performing on stage inherently opens one up to judgment; it requires baring your soul in front of others. I’m learning that writing—even fiction—is no different. I’m not sure why I didn’t realize this before.
As I sit on a couch across the room from my life partner, a man whose heart I know as well as my own, I zip my mouth and open my ears. This is a growing moment! I tell myself. I will learn. I will get better. Humility wraps its arms around my fragile ego and tells me everything will be OK.
And then I dream of being interviewed by Oprah about my novel . . .
Made with love by structure & heart studios
"Forks & Knives" was born as part of a long journal entry, a cathartic release. In 2003, despite being happily married to my second husband, insomnia visited me regularly. My brain pushed and pulled, working through hurtful and confusing memories that defined the rocky journey of my first marriage and its ultimate demise. The finished document sat inside my computer, unread, for seventeen years.
When I retired in 2021, I revisited the document, hesitantly. “Is this worth reworking into a novel? Would anyone care about this?” I asked my best friend, my husband Stephen, to read it. Bonus for me: He taught American literature for more than twenty-five years (!), so I knew I could trust his opinion. Happily, he confirmed, “Yes, it’s good. You should work on it.” Then he introduced me to Brian Kaufman (www.authorbriankaufman.com) and Penpointers, the Northern Colorado writer’s group that Stephen had belonged to years before I met him. Over the next year and a half, my self-focused monologue transformed into a work of fiction that would appeal to people outside my immediate circle of friends and family. At least that’s my hope.
Whenever I mention what this book is about, I'm invariably met with, "Yeah, my mom was a drinker," or "My son was sober for a while, but . . ." There are millions of stories like mine out there -- people who have loved/lived with alcoholics/addicts and struggled to hold on through the pain. But there are ways we can help and support those we love without losing ourselves. This novel alone can't help those still working through those dark days, but maybe some of the resources here can play a role.
