This is the first in a series of five blog reposts on the writing of Loon
From earliest memory my mother said that I would write the Great American Novel - not should, not could, but would. I’d laugh.
She’d laugh.
Over time I noted that, beneath her smile, she was serious. Yet, no endeavor could have been nearer to my heart or further from my reality than that of being an author. Our lively back and forth on this subject continued until her death in March 1987.
Years later, I came upon a box of letters home that I’d written during my time in the United States Marine Corps from 1966 to 1968. My mother had saved them, but I’d never read even one.
Between jobs and looking for a distraction, I began to carefully transcribe the letters. Then I cried – for several days. So many of those boys with whom I served in Vietnam were still dead, still wounded, or lost off in the world. I continued to write. I was creating a gift for my daughters. I was putting our microcosm of history on paper.
There was some satisfaction when I finished the project a month later. Closure? I continued my job hunt and tried to get on with my life, but the letters gnawed at me. I’d succeeded in recreating 107 different photographs, in the form of individual letters, of my life over a two-year span. They needed an album to assure that someone other than I would know the full story.
I began to write again, this time telling stories. Who was this friend I mentioned several times, what was my family like, my upbringing. The letters had been honest, but were protective of my family. I had to be more direct about what had actually happened and my feelings at the time.
I finally got a job, but found that I was soon spending every free moment writing filler stories. My body was there, it was a good job, but my soul was in Vietnam. The job lasted a year after which I really began to write and realized for the first time that I might actually have a book on my hands. I was so wonderfully engaged. I’d write all day and into the night. I had a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle on my hands and I was putting it together piece by piece.
I looked for another job, but mostly wrote. I was introduced to a Pulitzer Prize winning writer who had just completed a book about the Vietnam War. He liked what he read and (long time passing with each excruciating step) referred me to his agent. He liked it (sort of.) Another year passed, the agent struck out in his attempts to find a publisher, as I did with my attempts.
No one wanted to read military memoirs (particularly ones from Vietnam.)
Vietnam was dead, and the American public had elected with their wallets to keep it that way.
And what was my big idea, anyway?
But, the times were changing.
I knew I had a good book.
I knew it needed work.
I knew I needed help.
