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I have had a plethora of dreams and goals in my life. To play in the NBA; that one vanished when I was seventeen and realized that I was never going to stretch the measuring tape past six feet.. To date a movie actress who will remain nameless; that one still exists in my fantasy, but I’ve known for a long time that one is dead. Besides, I think my wife might have something to say about that one. To make a busload of money and retire at thirty; nope, I missed that one. To make a busload of money and retire at forty; well, I missed the boat on that one also. After forty, I didn’t set any goals for fifty; I knew better by that time. But, one dream has persisted and remained possible even after I turned the big 5 0.
I have always wanted to write a book. Now, let me qualify that. I have always wanted to write and FINISH a book. Through the years, I have started a few books, but they have remained unfinished, unloved and neglected. Now, those pages of merely reminders of a youth long since past. But, hope springs eternal, I suppose and sometimes it takes a little misfortune to motivate. Sometime last autumn, I saw my retirement accounts depleted by the crashing stock market and soon my business began mirroring the economy by taking a sudden nose dive. For some reason, this financial crisis and panic caused a stirring, an awakening, an inspiration. An inspiration to write and FINISH a book.
So I began thinking. At night, lying in bed while trying to drift off to sleep. I would stay awake for an hour or two as scenes from a story flashed through my mind. I created characters and a continuing story in my head, and night after night I moved further along in this story. Then I started writing. Slowly, chapter by chapter the book began to take shape, to have a beginning and a middle. But wait, I had been here before. A few times before. And though it felt good to be in the middle of a story, the middle was not my destination.
A strange thing happened this time, unlike the other time I had began writing a book, this time the inspiration did not fade. This time I did not quit and abandon my tale. I continued to push on and the pages of my manuscript began to accumulate. One night, the ending just popped into my head. I knew the end! I jumped out of bed, turned on my computer, and wrote and wrote, and wrote some more. Three hours later, I had completed the final three chapters. It was two in the morning and though I was completely exhausted , I felt a sense of authentic satisfaction. In the next few months I filled in the remainder of the story, and voila, I was finished!
Well, not completely finished. I returned to the beginning, and chapter by chapter, I corrected the mistakes, erased redundant passages, and mined the thesaurus for words that would emend and enrich and embellish and enhance and enliven and, well, you get the picture.
One late afternoon day with the sun shining through my office window and music blaring from my computer speakers, I corrected the last mistake. The book was complete; it had a beginning, a middle and an end. I printed this last chapter and put it in the notebook with the other chapters; I had in my hands one finished manuscript. A journey that had started so many years ago had now reached its end.
On that day a new journey began. A finished manuscript is merely a collection of pages unless it gets published. When it is sitting on a bookstore shelf, or listed on Amazon, it can truly be called a book. Is there an ending for this new journey? I’ll keep my fingers crossed and pray that it doesn’t take another fifty years to reach the new destination!
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