My Writing Bucket List

January 1949 Popular Science magazine

When I was a kid, I thought that the coolest thing in the world would be to publish writing that people would enjoy. It wasn’t an ego thing so much as the desire to help other people feel the same thrill I got when I read something entertaining.

So, I one day grabbed an old Royal typewriter from the closet and spent hours hunting and pecking its springy keys. By the time I was finished, I’d filled one whole page with a single-spaced story I plagiarized from an Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine (circa 1970). Pulling the paper from the Royal, I waited until dark, then snuck it onto a neighbor’s porch. But after the second edition I gave up. It was just too much work. That and the fact that I was caught by said neighbor, much to my mortification.

In high school, I wrote articles for the school newspaper but found straight story writing to be a restrictive bore. Much more entertaining was the “Chub Weekly” that I and a few lunchroom buddies put together; a low-budget National Lampoon, it was a periodical full of crude, offensive drawings that made fun of fishing; funny, but too much work to maintain.

Before graduating, I wrote two satirical newsletter articles for the drum corps I belonged to; later on, monthly pieces for a church periodical. But fame escaped me- not that I was seeking it. I was all about entertaining and informing others.

Eventually, I gave up on the idea of writing for an audience. But after I married and kids started showing up, I felt like life was passing me by. I decided to leave my literary mark before old age had it way with me.

Many creative writing classes, seminars, and workshops later, I started writing a book: a memoir describing what it was like to serve as a missionary in the western half of Argentina, back when Isabel Peron was handed her walking papers and put under house arrest.

Journal entries, letters, and postcards were scoured for the best stories to tell. Then came that arduous hunt-and-peck typing I despised, with copies made at a printing shop. But after all of that work, I tossed the copies and started over, having discovered that journal entries do not a memoir make. I needed to tell a compelling story.

Thirty years later, the manuscript was ready for publishing.

Well, almost ready. There was the small matter of cover design. A graphic designer up the street from my house helped me put it together.

Looking back, I would do a couple of things different today: 1) I’d put something besides a photo of myself on the front cover; and 2) I’d pay a lot more than $75 for cover design.

But at least the back side looked good, displaying the ISBN (that I paid dearly for, courtesy of Bowker), and an endorsement by a real writer- Brendan Halpin- which he offered for free, because he liked the book so much.

The summary was a tough thing to compose, but I finally finished it. Then it was off to CreateSpace for final edits, formatting, and the long-awaited proof copy.

When that square bound volume arrived, I was stunned. I’d written a book! I looked through the 367 pages and couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I sent word to CreateSpace, and they mailed me a heavy box with twenty-five copies of “The Book of Dan” inside. Opening that container was a moment I’ll never forget.

But what followed were many moments I wish I could forget.

I posted contests online and gave away copies to friends and relatives. But due to a lack of marketing skills and money, only seven or eight copies sold on Amazon before “The Book of Dan” tumbled into that bottomless online abyss where all poorly marketed books end up, whether they be good or bad.

After going through all the steps of the Grieving Cycle, I decided to never self-publish again. Yet two years later, I was hard at it once more, this time with a memoir about the five weeks I served as a juror on a history-making trial in Portland, Oregon.

After going through the preparation process again, and not having learned my lesson about cheap covers, I paid my niece- who told me she was a graphic desinger- fifty dollars to put together the front and back.

This time around, I made sure there was no photo or likeness of me on the front cover. Too bad I forgot to place my name there. And too bad the damned thing looked so abstract that it pulled one’s attention away from the title.

And unlike “The Book of Dan,” I was not in love with this back cover- a drab affair that screamed “AMATEUR,” though that ISBN marker still looked cool.

But hope sprang eternal. I got the copies printed and started the world’s shortest marketing campaign. And to no one’s surprise, even less people bought that sophomore effort.

That was when I said the hell with self-publishing. I’d gotten it out of my system. Now I could move on to… what?

When I looked in the mirror, all I saw was a retired guy who only wanted to write.

So here I sit, Scrivener loaded with a half-dozen book drafts in various stages of completion, and me clutching the latest “Writer’s Digest Guide To Literary Agents.”

And wondering what to do next…

Comments and questions are required welcomed. Ask me anything about memoirs, journaling or personal histories.