I am retired.
I have looked forward to saying that for months (read years) now. With free time and a meager monthly check, retirement represents an opportunity to live in the moment, to explore new options, to dream new dreams. Truth be told, however, retirement also means letting Kaiser, our 12-year-old miniature dachshund in and out of the back door about eight or twenty times a day, answering calls from telemarketers who have somehow acquired my cell number, and feeling a bit guilty about having so much free time.
For any 30-year veteran of teaching journalism and PreAP and AP English, slowing down is difficult, and grasping the concept of freedom might prove impossible. Therefore, not wanting to disappoint my colleagues by becoming a non-productive slug, I have created a new job for myself. At some point during the past year, I realized I want to write a novel. No lightning bolt, no epiphany, just a growing desire that eventually turned into a dream that consumed my imagination. (English teachers can never have something as simple and straightforward as an "idea.") And now, 27 days into retirement, I am 80 pages into my first masterpiece.
But is it a masterpiece? Nobody knows. It's grammatically correct and well punctuated. It has characters, conflict, description, rising action, dialogue, mystery, even a bit of romance. But I keep wondering, "Is this any good?" And for the first time in years, I have no clear opinion. The so-called experts advise first-time novelists to just keep writing, to not worry whether your story is fabulous or pathetic. Just get something on paper, even if it's garbage.
Do these experts realize they could be giving advice to former English teachers who have revised almost every word as they graded the essays of more than a few students through the years who have unashamedly given them garbage. Unabashedly. With aplomb. Do these so-called experts expect us to become those students of our nightmares? the ones who could produce garbage with clear consciences?
Nevertheless, I persevere, traveling through Neverland as my proverbial plot thickens day by day. At the very least, writing is an inexpensive hobby that occupies my free time between having lunch with friends, taking trips to visit my granddaughter, reading other people's masterpieces on my Nook, and wasting time Facebook stalking on my iPad. Writing keeps me away from the mall, online shopping, my kitchen, and my car. Writing challenges me, keeps me focused, preserves my aging brain, makes me want to keep writing.
Rejected or accepted, my eventual novel will be mine. Meanwhile, I have rediscovered that writing is incredibly fun. I killed three people this afternoon, and I never had to leave my laptop. Not too shabby for someone who was educated using typesetters, darkroom chemicals, galley proofs, process cameras, waxers, t-squares, and light tables. When I remember those days, novel writing pales in comparison. After all, I've read about five million books in my day.
But I am naive. I am green. I have never finished a novel. I can't even honestly call myself a writer, at least not in public, at least not yet.
But I am determined and persistent. I'll let you know how it goes.
