What started as a ‘bucket-list’ item, and a project to test resolve and endurance of stringing together enough words to make up a novel, became an undertaking I was unprepared for. The writing flowed quickly; the first draft was just over 290,000 words within a few months. (I learned much later that a typical fiction novel had around 85,000 to 100,000 words.) At the time I didn’t understand the implications; I was just relieved to have completed the task.
Like many people, I said I wanted to write a novel. For what reason, I had no idea; it just sounded fashionable – and easy. Decades after uttering those words, I cautiously reconsidered, but I had no story to tell – at least nothing that could be deemed worthy capturing for posterity. One other red flag had me hesitate; I knew once I started something, I would finish it. This trait has borne good fruit, but there have been times the plums turned into prunes. When I believed I was ready to make the commitment, I rushed to the keyboard – then froze. I had no story to tell.
Eventually I had an idea. It was vague but I got started on the first chapter. It was going to be about a man who had nothing to lose. No prizes for originality, but I decided to take it from there. I was unprepared for what happened next. It was as if I had mounted a wild mustang, and for most part it was a question of hanging on. Any premeditation for a plot or scene seldom made it onto the page, so as opposed to forcing the words, I relaxed and let it come to me. (This made the writing fun; I was uncertain how it all would unfold. I’m aware of writer’s block, but my challenge was being able to capture the ideas as swiftly as they appeared. This disorganization is probably common for a first novel where a writer is fresh and eager; it’s the following novels that require a disciplined structure. I’ve had feedback that I’ve put everything into the novel except the kitchen sink. That’s true – the sink would have been overkill.) Afterwards, I would review passages and wonder where they came from. I still do.
I did have a few notes in the beginning, but as it turned out, they (fortunately) perished. I made a list of convoluted and pretentious vocabulary. Thankfully, I realized in time that if I thought they would make me sound smart or clever, they would achieve the exact opposite. More importantly, they invariably become devices to ruin pace or jerk a reader from the illusion. The last thing I wanted was for a reader to be distracted by uncommon words in the middle of a poignant scene. I understood early enough that I was producing a consumable product that should qualify as entertainment, and that every action should favor the reader. Disregarding this is a novel writing offense.
It also became obvious my original idea for the novel was flimsy – even though the intention was to write something worthy; something that would resonate with us. But it went deeper than that, and as I have mentioned elsewhere, parts of the novel enlightened and disturbed me. Actors are gifted with a special craft in being able to portray a character so unlike one’s self. I found myself in that position throughout the writing, and hope I have done the characters justice. I dropped myself into the center of their lives and dealt with their challenges, shortcomings, and environments. Sometimes I would just sit and stare at the monitor as I contemplated the misery and injustice that prevails in a world otherwise filled with magic and wonder.
Outside the first chapter, there was no outline or plot. That only came more than three-quarters through the novel when I realized I had better come up with an ending. However, directly after finishing the first chapter, I wrote the final paragraph of the novel. It just popped up, and remained largely untouched. It felt as if I was left to tie up the loose ends and knit the segments into a satisfactory ending. I hope I’ve achieved that.
Although Residues also has a gentler romantic thread, when I looked back at the content – the triumphs and tragedies that wove their way into the pages – I imagined that if I had benefited from a deeper insight into life’s extremities, so too might others. When I decided to take it more seriously, I discovered just how much work lay ahead, and that the subject matter demanded better than what I had given. I cut about 100,000 words from the book, (mostly adverbs and adjectives!), and did what I could to improve its readability. The writing was the easy part. The polishing, rewriting, editing, and technical challenges – exhausting. One must really, really want to be an author to write more than one book, and I commend them. I doubt I’ll be joining that dedicated group anytime soon. (Edit: Although I still don’t consider myself an author, I did write two other novels.)
Residues does not address or propose solutions for the issues facing the characters. Rather, it reflects how one group of people dealt with their challenges. Euthanasia, abortion, religion, child abuse, morals, and ethics are sensitive subjects, and ultimately each will determine their own position on these matters. Although Residues is a work of fiction, the issues are sadly, very real. As mentioned elsewhere; Residues is a glimpse of us, and too often a poor reflection.
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As there are a broad range of complex themes present in Residues, I’ve fielded questions on how such diverging principles originated, and how I wove them together. Frankly, I don’t know, but I think it began like a tree seedling where from modest roots shoots forth a stronger segment forming the trunk – the central theme. In Residues, this is the Doctrine of Double Effect. From there it can go anywhere, and it does – just as with tree branches. Because I draw on feel and intuition, I can allow the characters to orchestrate – even instigate – the story. My function is to trim, train, and prune in pursuance of sculpting a well manicured specimen – much like a bonsai artist.
I don’t necessarily come up with every twist and plot point, but I do have to resolve them.
