One day at a time

As some of you may have noticed, I've been fully embracing my inner lunatic of late. Today was no exception.

I finally heard from one of those elusive betas -- and it wasn't good. He didn't much care for the book. And since he's an honest guy who shoots straight (one of the reasons I selected him), he didn't sugarcoat things. Mainly, he couldn't get past the fact that three of the main characters are loosely (ahem) based on people he knows well. He said he had a hard time seeing them as fictional characters, and instead spent much of his time saying things like "so-and-so would never do anything like that!"

He did say the story was "okay" and the writing was "pretty good," so I didn't actually jump off the Illinois River bridge, although to be honest it was touch and go there for a while.

Look, I'm a realist at heart. I know I cannot write a book that everyone likes. If I did that, I would be the first novelist ever to pull it off. It just ain't gonna happen. I know that.

But that doesn't stop me from wanting to write a novel that everyone loves.

So after punching my cell phone "off," I did what I normally do when my dreams die a horrific death -- I uttered a string of curse words that would shame a Marine and lit another cigar.

But then I did something else. I called a friend of mine, a guy who is actually modeled in my book. He's someone I talk to when things go bad, someone who can help talk me down from the ledge. Some of you reading this post may know someone like him.

So I called him. And he didn't answer. So I waited ten seconds and called him again. And he didn't answer. By now, I was convinced that my life was over, that I suck not only as a writer but as a human being. That I could screw up a wet dream. Trust me, I can get pretty rough on myself sometimes.

Finally, when I was about to do something really weird, like pray or something, he called me back. Now he was also a beta reader and he liked the book; he had only a couple of minor issues.

"So should I just bag the whole goddamned writing thing and find a job at Radio Shack?" I asked, only half joking.

"Well, you could," he said in his southern drawl. "But in the end, I think it would kill you. Maybe not physically, you know, but in other ways. Worse ways."

After he told me that part I stole as my own above (about being the only novelist who writes a book everyone likes), I asked him -- in this whiny little voice, What I should do now?

"Well," he said, pausing. (He always pauses like that; it kills me sometimes, just waiting for him.) "I think you should get off your ass and try to get the fucking book published. And quit looking for a way to fail."

After he finished reading me the riot act, he spent several minutes telling me how to write my query. And remember, he's a damned engineer, not a writer. I couldn't believe the chutzpah!

Of course, he was dead-on right. I came away from the call with a whole new hook for my dead-in-the-water query.

I love my friend Greg. He always says the right thing, even though I sometimes want to kill him for it.

Onward, fellow travelers. We shall get through this, one day at a time.