Join me on my road to publication (part 2)
My new multipart series chronicles the ups and downs of an ordinary person striving to becoming a novelist in the real world. The series will span more than five decades.
If you’ve read part 1, you can skip the intro (though it’s a fascinating intro 😀):
I’m the author of ten published novels, three novellas, and one nonfiction book. Seven of the novels, the three novellas, and the nonfiction book were traditionally published. I self-published the remaining three novels.
Though this might seem impressive to some, it goes without saying that I’m no Stephen King, especially when it comes to our respective bank accounts. Despite boasting over 50,000 purchases/downloads of my books, I’ve barely broken into five figures in cash royalties because (admittedly) most of the sales were free or inexpensive ebooks. Regardless, it’s likely there are authors who would trade places with me, which might be viewed as a depressing commentary on how extraordinarily difficult it is for a no-name to hit it big.
Though I’m not the only author on Substack chronicling something like this, my story has unique elements that I believe will be informative and relatable to writers and readers. Over the next several months, I’ll post a bimonthly account of my journey to publication—from the 1970s when I was a young man with big dreams to a recently retired dude who hasn’t given up on those dreams quite yet. Here is part 2.
A three-year sabbatical from the rat race
In 1978 when I was 20 years old, I graduated from the University of South Florida in Tampa with a BA in Journalism and quickly landed a job with my local newspaper, the St. Petersburg Times (later renamed the Tampa Bay Times). I started out working mostly evening shifts and found my new career to be challenging and exhausting.
Meanwhile, my dream of becoming a famous novelist was just getting revved up, so I steeled myself and began my first novel. I wrote in the mornings before work and on my days off, using an electric typewriter and carbon paper so that I’d have an extra copy. This was cheaper than going to my local library and making copies at 10 cents a piece. For a 300-page book, that added up to a lot of money back then.
The novel was a Stephen King-like horror story that I titled Sarah’s Curse, and it was pretty good for a first-time effort. I finished it before turning 22 and even managed to land an agent. Back in the late 1970s, acquiring an agent and getting published were a thousand times easier than it is now. However, despite my agent’s valiant efforts, Sarah’s Curse never found a home.
But I really wasn’t upset! I believed my second book (or third or fourth) was destined to hit it big. And after I became famous with my other books, I could always publish Sarah’s Curse somewhere down the road, on name-value alone. (Sarah, who was murdered in the book, deserved better than to be left on a shelf to rot.)
As you might imagine, life churned on with little regard for my dreams. I got married, had kids, bought homes, mowed the yard (over and over again), worked long hours, got divorced, got remarried … and twenty-five years flew by in the snap of a finger. I went from being a young man with a sparkle in his eye to a middle-aged 45 year old with weary, bloodshot eyes. And even worse, there was still no second book.
As you might deduce, the years-long lull wasn’t part of my original plan. But it wasn’t like I didn’t try to write the second book. I started it numerous times but could never seem to get past the first chapter or two before petering out. Also, my failure to produce wasn’t from lack of an idea. As mentioned in part 1 of this Substack series, I was a huge fan of J.R.R. Tolkien, who inspired me to write my own epic fantasy classic—a magical world called Triken with a main character named Torg, a powerful wizard who was ruler of an army of desert warriors called Tugars. I ruminated over this before I fell asleep at night, while driving alone in my car, even when taking a shower. Characters developed, plot lines thickened, settings took on new depth. I grew more and more excited about it, but even then I couldn’t seem to actually write it (and even approach finishing it) no matter how hard and often I tried.
I blamed this on the fact that my real life was just too hectic, that my real job drained my creative energy, and that there wasn’t enough time in the day to do both. It became painfully obvious that I didn’t have what it takes to work 50-plus hours a week and write novels at the same time. Ironically, my dream of becoming a famous novelist was even more of a fantasy than the books I wanted to write.
Thankfully, as it turned out, all was not lost. A convergence of real-life events intervened on my behalf. The elderly parents of my second (and forever current) wife lived in Clemson, South Carolina, and they were in dire need of daughterly assistance. My wife and I toyed with the idea of moving to the Clemson area with our youngest kids and getting a house near the mountains, trading oceans for lakes, beaches for hiking trails, palm trees for tulip poplars, and 92 degrees for 72 degrees.
When we started the process of putting our Florida home on the market, we discovered much to our delight that it was worth more than twice what we had paid for it. The profit from our sale wasn’t enough to live like millionaires, but it was enough money to step out of the rat race for a couple of years and recharge our worn-out batteries.
And an opportunity for me to finally write that second book, with no built-in excuses.
Remember, I finished my first novel in 1979. It wasn’t until 2004 that we moved to a home on twenty forested acres in a town called Walhalla, only a 30-minute drive from my in-laws’ house in Clemson. If my wife and I tightened our belts, we had enough money to last about three years before we’d have to go back to work. We knew taking this break from the rat race wasn’t a wise financial decision and that we would’ve been much better off saving the money for our retirement. But there are moments in life when the urge to take a sizable risk overcomes your sensibilities.
Good fortune had gifted me three years to bring Triken, Torg, and the Tugars to life. What writer wouldn’t treasure such an opportunity? But it didn’t come without cost. I was about to find out, once and for all, if I could pull off this novelist thing. Or if I was just another wannabe staggering down the road with the slumped shoulders of failure.
The moment my wife, kids, and I moved into the house in Walhalla, the clock began to tick.
Three years to alter the course of my life—one way or the other.
Up next: Doing my research the old-fashioned way.
So interesting to hear how life "took away" your time and energy for writing and then ... decades later ... gave it back. I look forward to hearing how you seized the gift of three years to write!
Very cool to read this. I'm not quite half way through the first book of that very series you mentioned at the end.