What made me decide to write a book?
Residents of the cuckoo's nest.
The other night, my two daughters and I were on one of our usual evening walks.
“You know, I’ve got these stories in my head,” I said.
A long silence followed. It wasn’t an awkward silence; long ago, my family had ceased being shocked or amazed by just about anything I said or did.
Finally, Olivia spoke up. “So, what kind of stories?”
“Oh, various kinds. Supernatural-romance-adventure-mystery-weird-unusual-punk-type stuff.”
“Sounds like Taylor-type stuff.”
“And Olivia-type,” I said.
Taylor’s turn to interject. “We should write a book. I think all of us have these stories and experiences in our minds and hearts.”
“I agree,” I said. “Don’t you feel like you just have to get things out of your head–and your heart–just to retain your sanity? It’s like something that’s grown inside you over the years, possessed you. And now it’s fighting to get out.”
“Sure, there’s that,” Taylor agreed. “Plus, there are still plenty of people out there who enjoy a good story. I’m thinking YA fiction…”
…car coming…
…what would possess a person to think he could write a book, especially a young adult fiction novel? How do you write a book? I have no idea how to write a book, or even where to start. Okay, I have an idea. Actually, I have a lot of ideas. But, wait a minute. This will be three people writing one book? It will be a collaboration. Or a partnership. Or a big father-daughter-daughter fight in the making. Gotta think about this one…
5 to 7 seconds later…
Okay, we thought about it. Sounds like a plan. We figured we might as well jump all the way in, feet first. That’s our style: ready-set-jump, look down. Sometimes it works to our benefit, sometimes not. But creative minds tend to run a little heavy on the emotional side and, after all, this was such a great idea. Besides, we either had to go with it or regret not doing it.
I look at it like this: I don’t want to end up at 80 years old looking back on my life wishing I had tried it. I imagine myself sitting on my porch in a rocking chair. As my mind drifts, I remember the walks with my two daughters, decades ago. The thoughts float in. “…hey, we should write a book…good idea, Daddy…let’s do it…” Tears fill my eyes when I think, “We should have tried. Yeah, we should have at least tried.”
I love the movie, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. There’s a scene in which the patients of the asylum are discussing whether or not they could leave if they wanted to. R. P. McMurphy, the protagonist, played by Jack Nicholson, tells the others he’s leaving. The patients ask him how he intends to get out. He tells them he’s going to pry this huge, marble/concrete water structure up off the floor of the bathroom, walk it over to the window and throw it through the window. The structure is probably five times the weight of McMurphy, just as large and it’s bolted to the floor. Of
R.P. McMurphy
course, most of the other patients doubt McMurphy and challenge him to put his money where his mouth is.
After bets are made on the outcome, McMurphy walks over to the structure, bends down and wraps his arms around it, strains…and strains…turns red…and strains some more. After several long, excruciating moments, he gives up and walks away from the bathroom and the other patients. “At least I tried,” McMurphy says. “At least I tried.”
So that’s it, a father-daughter-daughter collaboration. We’re writing a book!