The emotions of a fellow when writing a full volume with no more experience in writing than an average blogger are mixed. There is a positive feeling about the huge number of pages available at one’s disposal, especially in my case as I usually find it hard to put my musings with brevity. The possibilities seem to have no bounds. The situation is not unlike that of a man who having only observed the world through one of his living room windows, is starting to leave the safety of his house and take a stroll in the woods. For one thing, it takes a lot more time than the quick-look-through-the-window routine. Also, the joy and freedom of having little boundaries with the world or in my case just words, do not come at no cost. There is a definite sense of apprehension and an uneasy predicament of one’s conscience giving one a curious look and asking a painful question, “What on earth makes you think that you are capable of a story?”, to which there is not much of an answer. To avoid the discomfort of reading between a dozen quotes, I think it would be prudent of me to convey this nasty conversation in the form of dialogue, like they used to do in plays and what not.
Conscience: “Good morning, Mr. Everyman”
Self: “Good morning, Mr. Con., if one is allowed to condense and simplify”
Mr. Con: “What on earth makes you think that you are capable of a story?”
Self: “It might be a jolly good idea”
Mr. Con: “On the other hand, it might not. It is frightfully difficult”
Self: “I cannot see what you are on about. You say a thing or two a few fellows, find an unfortunate coincidence of sorts followed by gloom and in the end good triumphs the evil. Simple, is it not?”
Mr. Con: “It will also triumph the reader’s patience”
Self: “Coo! I never thought of that”
Mr. Con: “That is the problem with you. You do not think of anything”
Self: “What shall I do?”
Mr Con: “Don’t write”
Mr Con: “What did you say?”
Self: “I said Pah!. I meant to say ‘Tchah!’ actually”
Mr Con: “Do you have the nerve to ignore my advice?”
Self: “As a matter of fact Consi my man, I do”
Consi: “In that case, I shall remove myself from service”
Self: “Good bye Consi. Let us take different roads. Who knows? Our paths might cross.”
Consi: “Good bye! Mr Everyman”
The last of Mr. Con’s remarks was said in an unpleasant tone that seemed to suggest disapproval, haughtiness and distaste in measured amounts and there I was, separated from this tactless critique and decided to venture into my little adventure. It was only when I sat down to write the first portion of the volume the words “It is frightfully difficult” came to convey their full meaning. You need a title to start with. If I were to write a blog, I would just curse and shout for a while, end up with about one thousand words, edit the darned thing and then give it a name. This cannot be done with a book.
I then went to a library to seek inspiration from a collection of books and the singular outstanding feature of all of those books were that they would be at least half an inch in thickness, when new. A quick glance at the successful books did not improve my mood either. Tom Clancy for example seems to follow the mentioned logic of showing the good beat the evil, but only with the help of advanced artillery. Dan Brown on the other hand follows a simpler formula for success that involves selling the story just by setting it in a good location like Italy. The protagonists are relentlessly chased around near monuments of Rome by an ugly mongrel with a weapon in his hand and finally everything ends well. Despite my complete inability to write such exciting stuff, I felt encouraged by an old pal of mine who urged me to give it a shot, my own way. I will include his name and address at the end of the book so you can send those nasty messages to him.