Truth or Dare

      Back when we were kids (and later when my kids were kids), we (and then they) used to play a game called "Truth or Dare." As I recall, though, the rules of this game degenerated somewhat from the decidedly tame and inhibited 1950s and early 60s, once it was the 1980s. But the basic idea remained much the same. When it was your "turn," you had to decide whether you would tell the "truth" about something another player asked you, or whether you preferred to take "a dare" and do something they told you to do.
     The more savvy players, of course, opted for the "truth" (because notoriously we lied, anyhow), as often the "dares" were far more undesirable. By the time I became a teacher, in fact, and this game often erupted on field trip buses, the "dares' could easily get you suspended, whereas the "truths," well, that depended on your individual level of naiveté (or perhaps more importantly, how good your poker face was).
     I think about that game a lot, now that I've become a writer...or am trying to became one, at least. This is because I realize that I am not very daring...never was, and at my age, am likely never to become so. Many of my regrets, in fact, stem from times when I had the chance to to something impractical, outrageous, dangerous, or otherwise daring, and (sometimes at the very last second) turned down the opportunity.
     As a parent, I would tell my children how wise that decision was, how proud I was of them, and so forth, and pat myself on the back for having raised them so well. But to be honest, I would also be secretly pleased that I didn't know about the all the daring things they did do, because (having survived these escapades, of course), these "dares" ultimately made them better, more experienced adults, who would eventually handle life ever so much better than I have.
      But back to writing...again reminding myself that this is a blog in which I write about writing. I'm feeling like a lot of the weaknesses in my writing stem from the fact that I don't take enough risks..."dare," if you will, to tell the "truth" in my stories. What I mean is, that my books are very tame...i.e., they don't reach out and grab the reader with same startling realities as say, Lisa Genova in her harsh portrayals of brain disorders, or John Grisham in his gripping suspense-filled narratives, or even Stephen King in his bloody horror stories. And yet these are all books I love to read.
      My characters tend to be real people, which I suppose is fine, living real lives with emotional dilemmas that many of us can relate to. Yet two of my favorite authors, Anne Tyler and Richard Russo also have these kinds of characters and are far more successful at weaving stories around them. So what is the difference that accounts for their success?
     Okay, good agents and aggressive marketing aside (as well as a bit of just plain luck), I think it all goes back to "Truth or Dare." In other words, how much "truth" they "dare" to put into their writing. I always used to quote Hemingway to my students (and to myself, as well, I suppose), when his advice about writing was to "write about what you know." But is it what you "know" or what you "really know" that you should be putting into your work?
     I am working on the final draft of a new novel called Reunion. Coincidentally, I started writing this right after (or perhaps, at least in my head, during) my own high school reunion, which I attended in 2018. And no, I'm not telling you which reunion it was; suffice it to say that enough time has gone by for a good many memories to be created and possibly surface in the process.
     I started this project by creating a group of characters who were close friends and composites mostly of me, but also of some of my childhood acquaintances. It's impossible, by the way, for a writer not to put parts of him or herself in the characters he/she creates, which, in itself, tends to make one wonder about some of the lives of some of the best-selling authors we all know and love. It's also not possible to create a character that doesn't have at least some minor traits of other people the writer has encountered along the way. Otherwise, these characters would be incredibly flat and inspire little or no interest from the reader. In other words, if we can't relate to the characters in a novel, we don't care what happens to them.
   This is where I think that my writing abilities diverge from those of truly talented writers. I care too much what happens to my characters; I'm happy to get them in trouble, or perhaps to behave poorly at times, but I can't seem to help but rescue them at the last minute, or imbue them with some totally redeeming (though perhaps briefly hidden) personal qualities that will allow the reader to forgive and truly admire them again. In other words, I don't "dare" leave them out there to deal with the "truths" of real life and its consequences.
    Here's the other thing; I don't seem to mind creating villains...in fact, I can do that rather well (which often makes me wonder what that says about my own life). But more often than not, I then end up worrying about how harsh I have been in the creation of these "bad guys" and worse yet, how precisely they might resemble real life individuals I may have encountered along the way. Then, as my grandmother would have said, "what will people think?"
    So imagine writing a book about a group of friends preparing for their 50th high school reunion. Sounds kind of boring until you actually start thinking how many memories these characters have amassed in this number of years, and thus how many ancient skeletons are rattling around in their respective closets. For those born after 1980, it might be a bit hard to imagine anything particularly steamy or regrettable that could have occurred back then. If this is the case, I suggest you watch "The Graduate" or perhaps a Woodstock documentary and broaden your perspective a bit.
    Anyhow, suffice it to say that memories of the bad guys get worse over time, and the minor sins of the good guys become more embarrassing, and possibly more intensely regrettable. And, as a writer if you "dare" to put the "truth" out there about either or both, you could end up with a hell of a good book...but also a rapidly diminishing social circle. On the other hand, if you don't, then honestly, why bother? Because you just created 300 pages of bargain bin material, and don't have any more of a social life than you did before.
     So... Good writing tip # 3,425,690: write about what you know, and don't be afraid to "dare" to tell the "truth." Especially since everyone knows that we writers are all notorious liars, right?

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If a Tree Falls in the Forest...

     ...and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? Everyone who ever took a high school biology class, or for that matter, perhaps simply a walk in the woods, has pondered this question at some point. In fact, I can remember having a number of philosophical debates on the subject, back when I was young enough to actually have the time or inclination for such conversations.
     In fact, in the midst of one such conversation, I can also recall a friend of mine throwing her hands up in the air, and saying, "of course it makes a sound! Because there's always someone there! How else would you know it fell?" At which point another friend smiled smugly and added, "ah, someone may have been there, but in order to hear it, they also had to be listening."
     It struck me the other day that this is also very true of being a writer...or the attempt to be recognized as such, I suppose; the analogy being, of course, that you (the writer) are the tree and the sound of you falling over is the novel, story, poem, etc. that you have written. And by extension, does it actually exist if no one reads it...i.e., if no one experiences it; if no one, philosophically speaking, is listening.
    Among other shocking discoveries I have made in the course of my brief literary journey is that the majority of acquaintances I understood to be readers (listeners, if you will, to keep with the analogy, that is), actually aren't. This is not to say they don't read anything at all, but that they follow a rather narrow path of selection when they do. I confess, of course, that I am much the same, in that I have my favorite authors...Anne Tyler, Richard Russo, Lisa Genova, John Grisham, etc....but I also pride myself on being able to try someone new and different once in a while; i.e., as in take the road not taken, as Robert Frost so blithely insisted we do.
      Granted, it's not always a successful path, at least as far as reading goes. Just as when one sets out on an unknown hiking trail, you never know how many obstacles there might be, or how steep or difficult the trail might become before you reach the end. On the other hand, if you don't make the trek, you might possibly never experience something truly special. Thus it is with reading; and I have now learned it may also be with writing, except as a writer, you are the trail they may or may not be willing to take, even if they are your friends and relatives, who you always thought trusted your judgment.
      Okay, my first book was not that great. I mean, I actually thought it was a good story with great characters, but it definitely needed some more careful editing in terms of style and presentation. Eventually, I did so and put out a second edition. The first edition sold better than anything I've written since; the second new and improved one, hardly at all. And with my subsequent novels, the response also dwindled. This is because at first, everyone was startled to hear I'd actually written a novel, and did so perhaps out of sheer curiosity (and even hopefully, supportiveness). But then, because the first one had flaws, no one went back to read more of what I wrote after that. Meanwhile, the next five books became progressing better works, and it's frustrating that few have dared to try more...to continue on the trail, as it were, despite minor obstacles.
       Returning to the aforementioned tree in the forest, this might be kind of like coming to a tree after it had already fallen and was lying there, beginning to decompose. In other words, the dramatic sound of it falling was past, so it now is largely ignored, when in truth, the next stage of its development (when perhaps small animals begin to inhabit its remains, or wildflowers and moss grow from its fallen trunk) is perhaps more fascinating or beautiful than the original tree was to begin with.
     Okay, I admit it, it's a stretch. But if you write, you probably get it. You are on the road to that beautiful, unexpected view, or wildflower meadow or striking waterfall...or even to the perfect sound of a tree crashing to the forest floor, but everyone else decided to turn back...or worse yet, they stopped listening. After all, with so many trees falling out there, who really has the time?

A Tisket, A Tasket

       Okay, I admit it, I'm one of those people who loves Christmas letters...and Christmas cards with pictures. I don't know if it's because I love reading and writing, or if I simply need to get a life. Whatever the reason, I honestly look forward to getting these communications every year, despite all the jokes about "brag letters" and "is that really the best picture you have?" type comments. I even like getting these from my kids...what does that tell you, right? It isn't that my kids don't tell me about their lives, I just like getting the official version that everyone else hears as well.
      I also have to confess that I write my own Christmas letter every year, send pictures of my family, and then feel the necessity to add personal notes to each one, just so no one feels they are less important to me. It's not that my life is so exciting and I think everyone I know is dying to hear about it; it's more like if I know I'm going to write these letters every year, I subconsciously find myself putting additional energy into making my life more interesting.
      Truthfully, though, this process can be a less than rewarding experience. My husband and I send out 40 some Christmas cards every year in three basic groupings: family (both of us have rather small ones), local friends and neighbors, and old friends we rarely see, but that we want to remind of our existence. The latter two categories occasionally overlap. Here are the categories we receive cards from: family, local friends and neighbors (many who, having heard from us, feel guilty and dig out and send one of the generic cards they've collected over the years), and old friends who, when reminded of our existence, also want to remind us of theirs.
      Okay, these communications are all nice in their own way; regardless of my minor bouts of cynicism, I do feel that the intent behind sending them is genuine, and in a world where being "so busy" has become a badge of honor rather than a complaint, I have to appreciate the time and effort it took for those I know and love to celebrate the season in this way. Plus, it's just simply nice to get something in the mail besides offers to have my hearing tested "absolutely free of charge," invitations to retirement seminars, and weekly communication from the Pella Replacement Windows rep.
     But what does all this have to do with writing, you may ask? (Since, after all, this is a blog in which I am supposed to be writing about writing). Actually, I think the reason I like getting Christmas letters so much is that it indicates the fine art of letter writing is not totally lost...and thus perhaps, neither is the art of writing itself (and by extension, reading, which is the one thing writers most hope for and cherish).
     Despite the fact that I have been informed by their parents that my grandchildren prefer texts and/or very brief emails from me (as opposed to the longer newsy emails I persist in sending them in an effort to be more a part of their lives), I still find written communication rewarding. Unlike conversation, it can be revised, edited, and rephrased many times before the recipient actually hears it. This eliminates all the "I should have said" or "I wish I had just said" moments we are all the least proud of. And, at least as far as email goes, you have a copy of what you wrote, and should your recipient lose, delete, or interpret what you said inaccurately, you can always set the record straight.
       I suppose writers feel this way in general about their work and this could be why we all try so hard to be published and, of course, widely read and appreciated. In other words, we are trying to be part of our readers' lives in some meaningful way, and at the same time we are sharing something about ourselves. Perhaps that's what makes the whole process so frustrating at times; i.e., here we are putting ourselves out there in the best way we know how, seeking to personally communicate, but often we can't get someone to read what we write and thus hear what we have to say; get to know who we really are, in other words.
      My grandmother always used to recite silly nursery rhymes to me when I was a kid, even when I used to think I was way too old to be hearing them; but nowadays I realize that these little poems and songs were actually rather philosophic, as well as quite often applicable in the most unexpected ways. When it comes to writing, for example, I remember how sad I was to hear about that girl who put the "letter to her love" in a "green and yellow basket" but then "lost it" on her way to delivering it.
      Of course, the older and more cynical I became (no doubt in my teenage years), I began to think this was more upsetting to the girl who lost the letter than the intended recipient. He, of course, never read the letter so had no idea what the girl thought and felt, nor with how much love it was written.

The Infinite Expectation of the Dawn

      I published my sixth novel last week and it was received with sensationally minimal fanfare and applaud. I don't mean to negate the enthusiastic response I did receive from the kinder members of my family and friends, but for those of you who spend many waking hours on your literary creations, I'm sure you know what I mean. The elation one feels at typing the last word, correcting the last error, rewriting the last awkward paragraph, and then making the grand announcement to everyone you know and love, can quickly fade away in the virtual silence that follows this triumph.
     Okay, the truth is that I'm the world's worst marketer, so possibly this has something to do with the continuing turn of events regarding my so-called writing career. I'm not on Facebook for starters, a fact which my children continually remind me of by trying to chat with me concerning major family events and then adding, oh yeah, you don't know about that because you're not on Facebook! I used to claim it was because I was a teacher, but the truth is, like everything else technical, I'm simply afraid of trying to make it work.
      It's also true that every time I go in a Bookstore and try to talk them into stocking my novels, I panic and run out the door as soon as they say no...or even, hmmm...I'm not sure if we can do that. My other response is to try and console them when they explain how hard it might be to carry my books. Suddenly I'm on their side and I don't understand why. Weren't these the same people who just a few minutes ago basically told me that a 60-something Indie writer is not worth their time or energy?
     My personal favorite in response to my efforts are the old friends from my youth who tell me they never read fiction. Do they not recall the smutty novels we all passed around as teenagers? And what self-respecting, late 60s St. Lawrence University student never read the Electric Kool Aid Acid test?
     And if you're a struggling writer like me, I'm sure you've also had a friend call and ask to drop by, then just happens to bring along an "edited" copy of one of your published novels to "help you out." Help you out with what? Expanding your already shattered ego?
      Or the published mystery writer, whose books (even though you don't like mysteries) you bought and reviewed, hoping for some of the same in return, only to have said writer tell you they would, but they didn't want to pay for them. I've personally also read and reviewed glowingly five poetry books by old friends I haven't seen since the Bush era (the first Bush), but I'm pretty sure they don't have an Erni Johnson first edition of their very own.
      Okay, this is the post-publication downer we all experience...at least the "all we" writers that I know and talk to (let's just say that neither John Grisham nor Anne Tyler have invited me to tea recently). It can be a bummer, right? But certainly not the end of the world, especially when one's world is, as mine is, pretty damn nice otherwise.
     When I taught American Literature, I used to drag a fair amount of unsuspecting high school juniors through parts of Thoreau's Walden (I knew better than to assign the whole thing!) You know Thoreau, right? He's the guy who led the protest against paying government tax and then built a "rustic" cabin on his friend Emerson's property (for which Thoreau paid no taxes), and then walked home several nights a week to eat dinner with his mother (who also did his wash, by the way).  But I have to admit, he was incredibly quotable. Okay, not the "simplicity, simplicity" stuff, but when he pointed out that true happiness lay in an "infinite expectation of the dawn."
      I must confess, I am a sucker for that concept. But fortunately, equally so, for what Kurt Vonnegut noted in Slaughterhouse Five, when he wrote "and so it goes."  Yup, it sure does.

Great Expectations

      Recently, two close friends of mine became grandparents for the first time. Granted we just visited our first grandchild at college, and in two weeks our youngest grandchild will officially become a teenager; but I still remember the feeling when the first one arrived...and each successive one, for that matter, because that unfamiliar feeling of elation never changes, no matter how many come along (one of my friends is expecting grandchild #18...).  Maybe it's because you've been "Mom" for so long (albeit spoken in various tones of voice over the years), that it startles you when, rather abruptly, you realize you will now be someone else as well. Even though it will be at least a year or so before someone actually calls you that, from that moment on, you have become Grandma (or Grammy, or Nona, or whatever has been decided your alter ego will be).
      When my oldest grandson, Evan, was about three and he was in the process of learning letters and numbers, I gave him a set of alphabet blocks. Turning over the "E" and handing it to him, I cheerfully pointed out that both our names began with the same letter. He looked at me with some confusion and then inquired, "Grandma begins with an E?" It was then I realized my transition to this new identity was complete. This was further emphasized when my next-in-line granddaughter, Brooke, at age four was beginning to sort out all her grandparents (she had nine at that point, including "Greats"). She looked at me rather quizzically one day, then asked, "what was your name before it was Grandma?"
      Actually, the most interesting aspect of becoming a parent or grandparent is etymological; i.e., the way in which our society (or at least the English speaking part) has chosen to express the impending arrival of new offspring...we say that So-and-So is "expecting." This is followed by a chorus of oohs and aahs and occasionally hugs from people you would just as soon didn't.
      I think my father expressed it most symbolically when, on hearing my brother and his wife (who already had two children, a boy and a girl) were "expecting" their third child remarked, "what are they expecting to get?" Of course, my brother and sister-in-law did go on to acquire three more kids, and I ended up with a third by default when said additional child was already 10. Interestingly, though, my parents...those staunch believers in the idea that everyone should simply have one boy and one girl, as they did...never stopped bragging about all nine of their grandchildren.
     But "expecting" what? I want to ask in my most cynical moments. Eighteen years of sleepless nights up to and including when they are driving your car around in the dark or waiting tearfully by the mailbox for college acceptance letters? When you are "expecting," of course, none of the potential frustrations and downsides of parenthood (or grandparenthood) ever occur to you. For some unknown reason, in all your pre-baby daydreams, the weather is always perfect, everyone is always smiling and laughing, you receive endless declarations of love and appreciation, and no one ever has the flu.
     So what does all this have to do with writing? (Because this is, after all, a blog in which I am supposed to be writing about writing...). There is actually a connection, believe it or not, and a rather strong one at that. While it's true that no one actually "decides" to become a writer (since most of us can't help ourselves), there still is a moment when one admits or maybe even announces to someone else that they officially are one...and then hopes for a response that meets one's expectations. Not unlike, if you think about it, becoming a grandparent.
      For many years, I hand wrote my poems and stories, usually in old college notebooks, or on large yellow legal pads, when I sat in interminable faculty meetings pretending to be listening and taking notes. So for me, the first admission of truly being a writer came when I actually typed something and perhaps even let someone else read it. The latter, by the way, is an incredibly humbling (if not downright depressing) experience equivalent to the first time you try to put your grandchild in a modern car seat.
    The next time I let it be known that I was an actual writer came when I submitted a story to a competition I felt sure I would win...and two days later received a cheerfully worded rejection letter encouraging me to try again another time (and pay another entry fee while I was at it). I equate this to buying six tickets for Disney on Ice with the expectation of taking your whole band of merry little grandchildren to this event (and thus winning Grandma of the year award); only to find out that they already went to see it with their other grandparents.
      But the ultimate acceptance of my new identity (i.e., as an author) came when I began to publish my novels. Again, the feeling of seeing your name on the cover of an actual printed book is one of immediate euphoria: could this really be you? The woman who once had reams of unfinished stories and mediocre poetry stashed in a dozen cardboard boxes in the attic, now truly has something out there for everyone to read and admire?
      The expectation, of course, is that your book will be a best seller, with any number of publishers and agents banging on your door and demanding more of the same. And the movie rights? To whom will you finally award this honor? Ron Howard? Hallmark? Spielberg? So many choices. The reality, of course is far different, as I'm sure I don't have to explain to anyone reading this blog who writes...and to those who are aspiring to...sorry, spoiler alert.
     This is similar, actually to when your granddaughter sends you a homemade Valentine, even though she's 13 and this would be decidedly uncool if anyone found out, so you're not allowed to tell anyone. Or, when your grandson at age 10, informs you that you are his "favorite Grandma" even though you didn't even buy him anything recently, but you had no idea there would come a time when he'd live so far away that you wouldn't see him for two years. Euphoria, yes, but fulfilled expectations, not so much.
     The bottom line, of course, is that we writers are a delightfully unrealistic breed. Otherwise, how would we survive in a vocation where one is supposed to be incredibly imaginative and creative, at the same time one is dealing with some of the most discouraging realities? Like one's children or grandchildren, an author's work is a source of love and pride, and frequently   a sense of personal accomplishment that in the long run generally exceeds the not so rewarding moments. As for the rest of it? Well, what was I really expecting anyhow?
 

Between the Lines

      I'm not sure when it was I started reading again...I mean really reading, not just reviewing what I had to teach the next day; e.g. the 25th time I reread The Great Gatsby or Death of a Salesman, searching for some inner meaning I might possibly have missed the first 24 times I read either one. What I'm talking about is actually going to the bookstore or the library and picking out something I just want to read.
      I'm thinking now that it might have been right about the time I decided to finish writing my first novel...which I never did, by the way, or at least haven't yet, even though I did finish the second, third, fourth, and fifth ones I subsequently started. There is something about suddenly identifying oneself as a writer that, whether you like it or not, makes you part of the club; that club of semi-egotistical, semi-terrified, semi-disillusioned band of brothers (and sisters), who through some form of temporary insanity begin attempting literary recognition.
     And as part of this club, one quickly recognizes that one must also read what the other members, past and present, have written. Granted having been an English major throughout some 11 years of college and graduate school (not to mention teaching the subject for over 30) did give me a leg up, so to speak, when it comes to consumption of literature. But if you ever think you are more than an average reader, all you have to do is walk through the tiniest local library or bookstore to realize how many books are out there that you haven't read.
     I don't recommend this "test" by the way, if you have just recently begun to think of yourself as an author, because it will most certainly cause you to throw up your hands in despair over the possibility of ever being published. Still, you do find yourself doing simple math problems, like if I read a book every five days and there are approximately 5,000 books in the fiction section of the library I am walking through, then will take me 25,000 days to read them all, which is approximately 68 years, not including the library's other branches that might carry different books...oh never mind, it's time I simply don't have, regardless. Besides, the chances of me reading through eight shelves of Danielle Steele novels when I couldn't even get through one, is pretty minimal.
      So what about the books one does decide to read? And how does one go about making that decision? They say you can't judge a book by its cover, but often the truth of that statement is not so quickly discerned. It wasn't until I was at least 40 years old and had been teaching for some time, that I learned the covers of most books are not actually chosen by their authors. In fact, a friend of mine in the publishing business informed me that this task is usually handed off to some young intern whom the editors assume will read the book, then search through a collection of templates for just the right artwork (electronically, of course) to attract the appropriate reader to his or her most enjoyable reading experience.
      If you have ever taught teenagers, you will instantly recognize the obvious flaw in this approach. Let me give you a hint: it starts with "read the book," and ends somewhere between "artwork" and "electronic." Try to imagine, for example, what the cover of To Kill a Mockingbird might look like were said non-reading intern to have designed it, or worse yet, Lord of the Flies. "Look Mom," your eighth grade son says cheerfully, "here's the book we have to read this summer. Can we buy it?" You look at the cover, gasp in horror, then quickly drag your son out of the bookstore, vowing to attend the next school board meeting...or at least, to send your husband.
      But let's just assume that the book you take off the library shelf does have a cover that at least partially suggests its contents. What next? The title, of course. As a teacher, I usually challenged my students to find the title within the text of what we were reading...okay, maybe more liked bribed them with the promise of extra points. Granted my original goal was to get them to read at least that far, but many good discussions often sprung from this pursuit as well. Now, having become a writer, or at least claiming to be one, I realize that most authors chose their titles from something in the novel that expresses the point or even overall theme of the book. More often than not, it is something one of the characters actually says. Since my publishing friend says that the authors generally do chose their titles, then I'd say this a good place to start.
      Then there is the inside cover or back of the book blurb that can be helpful...or not... Sometimes the information here is just a glowing list of reviews from semi-well known other authors who were paid, cajoled, threatened, or otherwise convinced to comment on this novel. Since they are probably all over 30, one can be relatively sure they actually read the book. However, I don't know about you, but adjectives like "spellbinding," "compelling" and "emotionally charged," along with assuring me I will "not be able to put it down," don't totally convince me I will love this novel.
     Fortunately, the actual descriptive blurbs (I have learned through my own publishing experience) are generally required to be provided by the author (and then are read by the aforementioned intern, which can be good news or bad news). They are supposed to include plot details (without giving it away totally), information on the setting, and basic character analysis. I've found this works pretty well overall, though I have had an occasional letdown. Who knew, for example, that a young man who goes "searching for his destiny in unknown territory," only to "unknowingly murder his own father" and "fall into an incestuous relationship without his knowledge" was actually a translation of Oedipus Rex.
       I have finally realized, though, that the library is the best source for random reading. If you choose the wrong book, it didn't cost anything, and no one will ever know whether you actually read it, or just kept it for a couple weeks, and then tossed it casually in the return bin. So far, though, I have to admit that my new reading binge has been a humbling experience. Granted I sometimes read a book and say what the heck? Why is this writer so famous and I can't even get my friends to read my work? But other times, I finish a novel and just sit there and say, wow, I wish I could write like that. Humility, I must admit, is truly the best inspiration.

So Long And Thanks For All The Fish

      This is the title of the deliberately humorous sci-fi novel of a once very trendy author named Douglas Adams. The majority of we once hippies own the whole series, now yellow with age, gathering dust on our bookshelves...or, at the very least, we all have the initial volume in the series, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Generally, neither I, nor anyone I knew back when this was written, would have gravitated toward this type of reading material, the premise of which is that a superior alien civilization is controlling all of human life, not with evil intent, but for its own simple amusement.
     But as it turns out, this novel, and the ones Adams wrote as sequels, are actually designed as commentary on the absurdity of human society, observed through an objective perspective, i.e., an advanced alien culture. In other words, that's what makes them funny, as well as offering philosophic comment on modern society.
    It occurred to me recently, that all writers do this, including me, though not necessarily via this particular genre. In fact, most of us (and I include myself somewhat tentatively in the author category), do not envision ourselves as aliens looking down on the earth with mocking sneers; but we cannot resist, nonetheless, imparting certain philosophic truisms via the foibles and epiphanies of the characters that populate our fictional worlds. The problem seems to be that the average readers (should you acquire any) tend not to notice your philosophic intent, much less the effort with which you put it out there.
    If you've ever tried to teach Mark Twain's The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn to suburban Connecticut teenagers you would understand what I mean. Initially, the kids simply lose track of Twain's point because they are too confused by the fact that Huck (who appears to be only about 13 or 14) leaves a perfectly comfortable home to go live on an island where there are snakes and homeless people; and then goes rafting without even wearing a life jacket. The fact that this character drinks and smokes and is eventually guilty of identity theft, makes it even harder for the students to understand where Twain was going with this.
     In other words, said teenagers completely miss the fact that Huck spends months running away from someone who, unbeknownst to him, is already dead. Not to mention when he comes to the conclusion that it is his "Christian duty" to succumb to government authority and turn in a runaway slave, he suddenly defies the law, and rips up the evidence, while declaring (rather than turn in his friend) "then I'll just go to Hell!"
     I had more hope of an integral level of understanding from the foreign exchange students, many of whom came from quite philosophically based cultural backgrounds. Sadly, instead, most of them spent the majority of that literary unit typing Twain's carefully constructed Southern dialect into their translators with the inevitable frustrating results.
    Then there is, once again, Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea. Sadly, this is generally a book of which even teenagers living on Cape Cod can miss the author's point. But anyone who's ever tried to be a writer certainly shouldn't. What I didn't mention when I brought this book up before was (spoiler alert again), that after the old man gets  back to the dock with the shark-chewed fish remains, and no one really notices or cares, he shrugs, goes back to his shack, lies down and simply fades away. Imagine, after all that fishing, having nothing to show for it, not even the appreciation for his efforts.
     When I was a kid, we had a cottage on a lake where we spent all our summers, a true gift my parents (through considerable time and effort) offered to my childhood that I'm sure I didn't truly appreciate at the time. A significant part of these summers, though, was fishing with my Dad. The lake was stocked with bass that seemed to get more enormous every time we recalled the latest catch, most of which we unhooked and threw back in the water.
      But my father would keep a certain amount of these fish, and bring them back to the cottage sink, where in a great flurry of flying scales and guts, he would behead and clean them. Then my mother would wrap the results in foil and resign them to the depths of our giant, free-standing freezer; storing them beneath the boxes of fat-ridden frozen burgers, nitrate packed hot dogs, and sugar-infested popsicles that compromised the summer diet of the average American kid in the 1960s.
     The idea, of course, was that we would cook and eat the fish at some point, but the reality was that I couldn't possibly eat anything that once stared pathetically at me from the end of a hook, and that my father actually hated the taste of fish. And my brother, though he claimed to like the taste of fish, would generally arrange not to be home for dinner when my mother briefly considered thawing one that afternoon. Then, at the end of the summer, when my mother cleaned out the enormous freezer, the eight or ten frozen fish would be unwrapped and become sacrificial offerings to the local raccoons in exchange for them not tearing apart our trash cans once we had returned to our city lives.
      It wasn't until I was significantly older and my parents, as well as the lake house, were long gone, that I realized what I liked best about fishing was simply riding around in the boat with my Dad. In other words, like many other things in my life, fishing with Dad was a lot like trying to be a writer has turned out to be. For the most part, it required a fair amount of effort (i.e., getting the boat in the water, rowing to a good spot, baiting the hook, making a successful cast, catching the fish and reeling it in, etc.), for something that produced very little recognition or reward, and in the end, served no real purpose.
    Philosophically speaking, however, fishing actually did...have a purpose, I mean, in that it created some important memories for me...of summer, of my Dad, my Mom, my brother, and of what it means to spend time doing something that can be important to you, even if it doesn't matter to anyone else. It often makes me wonder that if I'd never been given this childhood gift (the summers on the lake, that is), would I now be able to keep trying to be a writer? To be able to just accept riding around in the boat, as it were, as the ultimate reward? We'll see.
     After my brother and I grew up, and eventually after even our kids grew up, it became time to sell the cottage on the lake, and I went there one last time. There, I stood on the rocky shore and looked out at the tranquil water that held so much of my childhood in its grasp. So long, I said (I think actually out loud), and thanks for all the fish.