I Wrote A Book

These days, I get a number of people in my mind asking me what it’s like to have written a book. “Wow, Brad,” they say. “That is an amazing accomplishment. Tell us more!” These people are tiny and sit nestled in my brain around a card table. Their long-winded statements waft of my awesomeness. And they are not to be trusted.

But occasionally I appease them. I play short clips. One is of me at a book signing where a woman tells me her name and I write, “Brad, Your mouth smells like chickens. –Karen.” In the second my agent calls to tell me two things: 1) bookstores usually have a kids’ section so start wearing more clothes on the book tour and 2) a movie studio wants to buy my book. Clip three shows my wife pulling me down the red carpet in a wagon at the premier of my flim. (Don’t worry, she thinks it’s as funny as I do and we’re taking turns).

Honey? No. I'm thinking a red wagon, like in that 

movie "Radio Flyer," except without all the flying 

and child abuse.

And then other times I find that the “what’s it like?” questions are being echoed by real people, people outside of my head, people who don’t just sit and complain about being hungry and the noxious smell of brain.

It is then that I write a blahg post.

I Wrote A Book

By: Brad

I finished the first draft of my first novel last week. And it’s crazy to think about. I wrote a 404-page experiment in fiction. I did that. And I’m a little bit proud about it.

Last July I decided to start working for what I actually want instead of wallowing in the disappointment of not having it. I chose a career: being a writer. So I started with a book that’s been bugging me since college. A Creative Writing professor had us write a short story and when I handed it in I thought, “That should be a novel, not a short story.” The four above agreed, and brought it up at least once a month since. So at the beginning of July I found it on an old hard drive and started working on it, finding the perfect name for the main character, tweaking the beginning, and writing the story.

I was pumped. I told my friends of my new goal and one friend, one who I miss to peaches, brilliantly suggested I give myself an incentive (she also said she was going to make me 347 lbs. of chocolate chip cookies upon her return, so I have that going for me (which is nice)). But the incentive idea! What better carrot to dangle in front of a poor person’s mouth than a fat dick —money! I mean money. Where the hell did I get "fat dick"? 

So during a party I pulled another good friend aside, one who wasn't moving away, and said, “How about this: if I don’t write 70 pages this month I give you $100. And it renews every month until my book is finished. Speak!”

"Yes, but can you stop breathing on me?" 

And so the incentive was born. I withdrew five $20 bills, splayed them out and tacked them into the wall above my makeshift desk (a floor speaker).

“Why would you need an incentive to do something you love?” Maybe you should just shut the fuck up and go pose your questions to a blogger that gives a shit. It’s because those four tiny people I opened with rarely shower me with praise. Most days they love to reinforce my worries and insecurities: you’re actually a shitty writer, your hair is too coarse, you’ll never get published, and your breath smells like chickens.

Every writer deals with the equivalent of my four little people, which is why a lot of writers drink or do drugs before or while they write: to blanket those thoughts in a nice, thick, warm layer of booze, pills, crack, ice, boom and/or pow.

The incentive, the five Jacksons that watched me while I slept, served as a daily reminder of the goal I had set out to accomplish and what I could lose if I didn’t sit my ass down, ignore my brainmates, put fingers to keys, and write the fucking thing. 

Also staring at me while I sleep.

And it’s amazing the shit you’ll occupy yourself with to steal time from what you actually should be doing. I loathe cleaning. But I became an eager beaver on writing nights, dusting, sweeping, rearranging my closet, researching female breast shapes and sizes on the Internet, washing dishes, folding laundry, anything so that I wouldn’t have to write, because the four come alive when I write. But it was that nagging feeling of letting $100 slip through my fingers that produced the first wave of my book. I’m sure it had a bit to do with actually accomplishing such a feat. But it was that damn money that kept me on point.

I didn’t miss a single month, but there were times I came close to falling short. On or around day 23 you could usually find me on my bedroom floor in the midst of a melt down, blubbering like a teenage girl, spouting things like, “I just, I just wish he liked me,” or “Ya know? Just, like, really liked me for me.” November was a toughie. It’s a shorter month, my birthday cuts it in half, and of course: Thanksgiving, which, like a true American fat ass, I celebrated twice. On November 30^th I wrote all fucking day, a total of 13 fucking pages, (up just a titch from my usual three) to meet my fucking quota. Afterward, I weighed some options: death by booze or bullet. Both sounded like way too much work so I settled for smoking myself stupid.

You've come a long way, Milk Am Sam.

Right now I have eleven bank slips nailed to my wall. They come in deposit/withdrawl pairs except for the last one. Near the first of the month, after every successful writing purge, I’d deposit my $100 then withdraw another $100. My visit brought the bank tellers much joy, if under “joy” your thesaurus includes words like “confused,” “scared,” and “irritated.” I was intentionally vague in my reasoning just to see their reactions. Common question: “So you want to deposit these $20 bills, and withdraw five different ones?” Common actions: teller looks at me with suspicion, teller examines bills and holds one up to the light, teller keeps one hand under counter at all times, either touching herself or the panic button. I couldn’t tell.

One visibly-nervous woman asked if there was anything wrong with the bills. I said no and when she counted out five new ones her OCD took over as she became obsessed with giving me the most beautiful and crisp of the lot. I told her repeatedly it didn’t really matter what they looked like, then dreaded my words on the ride home as I couldn’t get past the orange mark on the corner of one of the bills. “I have to look at that all month?” Shudder. Because, afterall, I also have OCD tendencies.

I am not naïve. I know the first draft is the easy part. You just write what makes you laugh, or what keeps you on the edge of your seat, or whatever shuts those four people the fuck up (impossible, by the way. And I swear to God they’re eating chips right now!). I told a few friends that writing this book was my marathon. Editing it will be my Iron Man. Sticking with writing in general until I can give and take a wagon ride down the red carpet, my Everest. I imagine in April when I begin the editing process, my avoidance tendencies will come back and I’ll be volunteering to clean my roommates’ rooms. There are only so many breasts on the Internet.*

Wow, Brad, thanks for ruining it for me.

So here, as promised, is a brief write up of my book, similar to what you’ll find on the inside flap, but probably worse:

Nyle Briggs hates his life. He hates his cold and germ-riddled city, his domineering boss, and even his two cats. Then a lucid dream —a dream where he can control everything and everyone without consequence— changes it all. Nyle escapes nightly into a world without limits, sleeping with any woman, bending the laws of physics, and creating and destroying anything he desires. But his dream life of luxury and power turns into a nightmare when Nyle loses control… of himself.

So yeah, that’s the teaser. My time line is: edit in April (with fresh eyes), send it to a few friends for some feedback in May, retweak in June, and hopefully by the end of July I’ll have it in front of some literary agents. Yeeee haaaa! (Gun shots)

*Completely false. There are an endless amount of breasts on the Internet.†

†Or so I hear.

To read a prior post about some more fantasies

about my future career as a writer, click here.