“Why did you write this book?”

This was the first question from the editor to whom I paid $5,000 for a critical review of my most recent novel (my second serious attempt).

I was gobsmacked. Instead of responding to him with a carefully considered declarative sentence, I thought: Why indeed?  Why not? Isn’t it obvious? You insensitive twit:  How dare you insult me thus?  In retrospect, the question was obviously designed to ensnare, to make me squirm.

And squirm I have, for the nine months since it was first posed.

To be fair, he did elaborate his critique; commenting on the salient issues with which every writer struggles (Possibly excepting Stephen King): character development and arc, pacing, conflicts, etc., etc.

But in those ensuing months I struggled to digest his analysis: rethink the believability of the plot, eliminate unnecessary scenes, cross out all adjectives and adverbs while trying to visualize the potential reader(s) for my now fourth re-write.   But try as I might, I could not delete his first question from memory:  Why am I writing this?

Was it to make millions as adoring fans clamor to buy it simply because I wrote it: as they do Apple’s latest phone?  Or was it to shape world opinion on a topic heretofore barely discussed? (BitCoins or Transgenders). Maybe to vindicate years of research on arcane subjects like asteroids colliding, or, why did mollusks stop reproducing thousands of feet below in the Pacific Trench?  Possibly to prove my parents were abusive when they refused my pleas for a pony at Christmas?

No. None of the above cool reasons.

I write because I’ve led an interesting, varied and rewarding life, that includes a loving family, fascinating travel experiences and the friendship of fascinating, accomplished people in the U.S. and abroad. (That exhausts my supply of adjectives.)

I want to share these experiences in a manner that will entertain, not bore an audience.  Can you imagine anything more exciting than a friend insisting on sharing his vacation via photos, the size of an Indonesian postage stamp, stored somewhere on his I-phone?

Instead, I choose to describe personal experiences, good and bad, presenting them in fictional form that embellishes, without distorting, the reality of a life will lived.  Hopefully, they will entertain.

I call it a NOVEL.

You are welcome.

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