It’s hard, writing a novel. There are so many things to take into consideration: the title; the names, physical descriptions, and backstories of the characters; the pace of the story; the plots and subplots; historical accuracy. Yesterday, I wanted one of my heroes to drive a Citroën 2CV—a deux chevaux—but the year was 1942 and the deux chevaux didn’t come into production until 1948 so my man had to drive a Fiat 500 Topolino instead; not nearly as good! And what about sex and violence? Sex and violence sell books and you’ll never get your novel turned into a movie starring Julia Roberts and Ryan Gosling if you don’t have at least a little sex or violence or both! I’m telling you: writing a novel is hard; it’s like being a one-armed juggler without a helmet!

It’s hard, writing a novel. Things keep getting in the way: going to the grocery store, making dinner, changing the laundry, taking out the trash, playing golf. Especially playing golf. Everybody thinks it’s easy writing a novel but it’s not. Life keeps coming at you head on and life isn’t always conducive to the discipline of writing a novel. I should know. I’ve started three and finished none.

It’s hard, writing a novel. People think you can write anywhere, anytime, but you can’t. The light’s not good here; this chair is uncomfortable; it’s too noisy; it’s too quiet. Some people think you can take your laptop to Starbucks so you can write your novel while drinking a no-foam latte, or they figure you can write while you’re on vacation, but is it really a vacation if you have to write while you’re on it? I don’t think so!

I’ve heard people say that writing a novel must be good therapy. I suppose there’s some truth to that because it’s kept me from committing homicide. So far.

Then there’s the question of money. There’s always the question of money. Unless, of course, you happen to be Danielle Steele, John Grisham, David Baldacci, Doctor Seuss, or any one of those other Philistines (not you, Doctor Seuss) who turn out bestsellers like Christmas fudge and make it look like it’s easy to write a novel. Maybe it is for them, but I am an artist. I walk a higher, narrower path.

It’s not easy, writing a novel. You can’t tell your friends what you’re working on because then they want to hear all about your novel but you don’t really want to talk about your novel because after all, you’ve started three and finished none and that’s not a very good track record. I realize these friends are just trying to be helpful and supportive, but let’s face it: writing is not a team sport. It’s the loneliness of the long-distance runner, a solitary pursuit. It’s the stuff of introspection, not Martini Night.

It’s hard, writing a novel. It’s relatively easy writing these Musings—it will be four years next week and I haven’t missed a deadline yet!—but my novel weighs on me like an elephant on my chest which is how people describe a heart attack. A novel is a heart attack, day after day after day.

It’s hard, writing a novel. My wife wants to know what I’m going to do today and I tell her I’m working on my novel and I know what’s she thinking: he’s going to sneak out and play golf or take a nap or watch the next episode of The Crown without me! She wants me to go get some real exercise. I tell her writing a novel is good exercise for my mind and she just stares at my belly.

I’m just saying: it’s hard, writing a novel. Ideas come screaming like a firetruck in the middle of the night when all I want to do is snuggle up next to my sweet baboo, but instead I have to get up quietly in the dark and go downstairs where it’s cold and then stare at my computer screen for an hour or two. I might as well go back to bed but I’ve just downed two cups of coffee while writing an entire paragraph so what’s the use?

Believe me: it’s hard, writing a novel. You try it. On second thought, don’t you dare: the competition is stiff enough as it is.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer with a home in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine.

Two collections of his essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”) are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com.

Don’t miss the latest! You can subscribe to The Talbot Spy‘s free Daily Intelligence Report here.

I love to read. Not “like,” mind you; “love.” Reading informs me; relaxes me; restores me. It may well be that reading is just another form of escapism, but what’s wrong with that? These days, a little escapism can go a long way.

I’m a supine reader. Chairs are good for the short-haul, but if I really want to take off and go around the world, nothing beats the couch. Except the hammock (in summer) or maybe my bed. At the end of a long day—or, at this time of year, a short day—what’s better than crawling under the covers with a good book? My wife agrees; she says it keeps my hands occupied.

I can’t pinpoint when this reading habit began. I remember childhood stories but I can’t quite see who is telling them to me. I still have some childhood books on my shelves: “Winnie-the-Pooh” (all four books in the series, of course), The Velveteen Rabbit, and a large format edition of a picture book about a little wooden Indian in a canoe named “Paddle to the Sea.” A boy places his toy carving on a frozen hilltop in Minnesota and as spring finally reaches the northland, the snow melts and the tiny canoe slips into a stream that empties into Lake Superior and eventually makes its way into the Mississippi River where it bobs along until it finally reaches the sea. There is a new picture on every page and it was my game of delight to find little Paddle in each one. It never got old. (Actually, come to think of it, that book is no longer on my shelf; my grandson has it.)

In school, I read what I had to read, but with a few exceptions, I had yet to find true love in reading. Girls always seemed to get in the way. One of my great collegiate regrets is that for a survey course on 20th Century American Literature taught by a very popular professor, I finessed my way through the syllabus by reading the cliff notes version of great books by wondrous writers. The final exam consisted of very specific questions about each book we “read.” I failed the exam and spent the next summer making up the credit. My father was not pleased.

But I finally awoke to the joy of reading when I was in the Peace Corps. There are long, dark, cold nights in the high desert of Tunisia and there wasn’t much to do in my small village. So, I read by lamplight. I worked my way through the work of Nicos Kazantzakis; “Zorba the Greek” was fun but “The Last Temptation of Christ” pushed me to higher ground. I explored Arabia with T.E. Lawrence and Wilfred Thesiger. I plowed through Shakespeare and even the Bible, marathons of shear accomplishment more than pleasure. But with each word, each paragraph and page, each new story and plot, I was accumulating a treasure chest of vocabulary, voice, and yes, even knowledge. Now, all those late-into-the-night books are the dividend accounts from which I can draw (tax free!) as a writer.

These days, I tend to choose works of fiction except when David McCullough comes out with a new history or Malcolm Gladwell opens up a new perspective on the world by talking to strangers. I like to think I’ve discovered wonderful new writers like Amor Towles (“A Gentleman in Moscow”), Delia Owens (“Where the Crawdads Sing,”) or, most recently, Téa Obreht (“Inland”), but I have a feeling that a few million other readers can also lay claim to these new voices. It doesn’t really matter who discovers good new authors, I guess; good writing will eventually find its way into the light.

I’m thankful for many things in my life, but at or near the top of the list are eyes to read and places to find good books. I’m ok with libraries and big box stores but dusty second-hand shops (like The Bookplate in Chestertown and Vintage Books in Easton) are the jewels in my browsing crown. It’s where I go to find what I seek: in a phrase borrowed from Alan Furst’s new novel of World War II intrigue, “Under Occupation,” “the consolation of books.”

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer with a home in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. Two collections of his essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”) are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com.

Don’t miss the latest! You can subscribe to The Talbot Spy‘s free Daily Intelligence Report here. 

You know, it’s not all that easy being a watchman. You catch what sleep you can during the day while the few friends you have are going about their business, then it’s up when the sun goes down, on your feet all night, cold, lonely, brooding about tomorrow. Most nights, it’s a boring job—not much goes on in this little corner of the world.

But every once in a while, something does come along, like it did last night. Three strange fellows, dressed like kings (kings!), arriving from the east. Said they were following a star (a star!), but I didn’t see no star. Said they were looking for a baby (a baby!) and that they even had gifts (gifts!) for the child. “What’s in the packages?” says I.

“Gold, frankincense, and myrrh,” says the black one.

“Oh, I know all about gold,” I say. “But why would a baby need gold? And what’s them other two things?”

They looked at each other, then at me, like I was stupid or something. “Frankincense,” says one of the other two (I couldn’t see which one because it was getting dark), “because it makes us think about God (oh boy, we’ve got a real doozy here!) and myrrh because it takes away the pain of this world.”

“This baby’s in pain?” I said. “What’s the matter with him?”

“He’s not in pain yet, but he will be. Someday.”

Now I was getting suspicious. “What’s that supposed to mean? You’re not looking for trouble, are you? Maybe you should just move along.”

“Which way to Bethlehem?” one of them asks.

“Bethlehem? Why would three fancy kings ever want to go to a little town like Bethlehem?”

I’d had enough of these fellows. Didn’t trust any of them. So I pointed over my shoulder, over to the west. “Bethlehem’s that way.”

How far?” says one of them.

“Not really sure,” says I. “Two days, maybe a week. Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Oh, you know: like on how fast those camels go; or if you stop to rest. And you know, if that gold is getting too heavy, you can leave it with me.” I laughed, but they didn’t think that was very funny. People don’t have much of a sense of humor anymore. Especially these three wise guys. I started to shoo them along.

“Wait,” says the one in front. “What do you know about Herod?”

“Herod?” says I. “How should I know? I’m just a watchman; you’re a king. Don’t you kings ever talk to each other?”

“No,” he says, all serious like. “We don’t even want Herod to know we’re here.”

Now I was really getting suspicious. “And why’s that?” I asked.

“Because of the baby. We think Herod might be jealous.”

“Herod? Jealous of a baby?” These guys were really getting on my nerves.

‘Yes! This baby is a king, too.”

I’d had enough. “OK. That’s it. Move along. Let’s just pretend this whole conversation never happened. I didn’t see you and you didn’t see me. On your way!”

And so off they went, toward Bethlehem to find a baby who was a king. All that gold and whatever them other two things were, pointing up to a star that wasn’t there. People, these days!

Like I told you, it’s not easy being a watchman.

I’ll be right back. (That’s me talking.)

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer with homes in Chestertown and Bethesda. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy magazine. “A Place to Stand,” a book of photographs and essays about Landon School, was published by the Chester River Press in 2015.  A collection of his essays titled “Musing Right Along” was published in May 2017; a second volume of Musings entitled “I’ll Be Right Back” was released in June 2018.  Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com

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