When I was 21 years old, I began writing what I hoped would be my first novel. I called it the Librarian. It didn’t take long for me to realise that my efforts were going nowhere. Since I had at that time recently published four newspaper editorials on the environment, and I had published a few essays and poems in a youth journal when I was 18, I had somehow thought I was now ready to do a major piece of writing. It was all an ego trip to be sure.
Then, I began to read about the authors that I loved and respected such as Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. When I found out that their major works work written at a more mature age, I vowed to not give up writing. Noting Tolstoy’s example, I decided that I would not judge myself harshly. I suspected, and stated to my wife and a few others that perhaps when I was in my 70s I would finally write a book that was worth being published.
Well, today I turn 70. I am now officially old. I am supposedly mature and responsible according to the age charts. However, my wife might dispute this as she still puts up with a lot of my nonsense [much like Tolstoy’s wife]. I have published three novels, none of which I would hazard will become a classic read. My poetry is good, very good. But to my mind, it is the novel that will define me as a writer. If I am going to write that ONE defining novel, I had best get at it. I can sense the clock ticking down the remaining years.
Is this an unrealistic dream? I somehow don’t think so. There is a novel that is buried within, one that will capture the human psyche in such a manner as to define our current reality. If I can do this, the novel will have met my goals, and perhaps as a result, become a novel that others WANT to read.
My novels get good reviews with all of them rating 4+ stars at Goodreads and at Amazon. I do know how to write. Yet, these novels are not much more than practice for the real thing. Now if only I can live long enough … LOL!