Novel – The Pencil-Driven Life

Evolution of The Pencil’s Edge Blog

For the past year, I’ve shared daily chapters from my novels, allowing you to experience my storytelling journey. Today marks a significant change as I transition my blog, now called The Pencil’s Edge, to focus on helping others write their stories.

As a newly certified Fictionary StoryCoach Editor, I’m excited to transform this space into a resource for beginning novelists. Instead of sharing my past works, I’ll be offering:

Real-time insights from my current novel writing
Professional story coaching guidance
Beginning writer encouragement
Writing craft development
Monthly explorations of story through current events

For those following “The Boaz Scholar,” you can read the first ten chapters here. The complete novel, along with my other works, remain available here, and at Amazon.

This change aligns with my commitment to helping others write their first novel. After completing eleven novels and beginning my twelfth, I’m ready to share not just my stories, but the craft and courage needed to write them.

Thank you for your understanding during this transition. I’m excited to help you write your own stories.

The Boaz Stranger–Chapter 1

Since my current work in progress is, well, not progressing much at all, I'll post a few chapters--maybe all--from my latest novel (published late fall 2021). Now, to Chapter 1.

A dense fog suffocated the dawn. It seemed I could reach out and touch Rachel’s headstone, yet I was underneath the cemetery’s arched stone entrance two hundred yards away. A bird, a radio speaker, my mind, something from above, kept reminding me of my grandmother’s philosophical mantra. “Live and learn and die and forget it all.” I’m sure my dead wife had forgotten everything, but had she discovered forgiveness? Had she forgiven herself for long ago sins, and had she forgiven me for failing to protect her?

The fog lifted and I realized I was in that netherworld between dreaming and awakening, moving my lips but barely sounding the words. “Oh Rachel, why kill yourself over something that happened half-a-century ago?”

I rolled onto my right side and opened my eyes, semi-surprised. The digital clock on Leah’s nightstand reads 3:58 am. It’s early morning, Saturday, and it has happened again. For the eighth straight week.

Last night I conducted an experiment. I abandoned mine and Rachel’s master bedroom and slept upstairs in our daughter’s room, thinking this would break the two-month established pattern. It had not. I awoke at the four o’clock hour entangled in the same dream clawing my way to a peace and happiness I knew I’d never find.

Other than the editing of my writings—natural for myself, Lee Harding, Yale Law School professor—my first thought every Saturday morning had been this question about my departed wife. It had been almost a year since I found her hanging from an overhead beam in the basement. Her successful suicide had followed her failed attempt via pain pills six months earlier. That was when she’d told me why she wanted to end her life.

I tossed the covers aside and sat along the edge of Leah’s bed. Rachel’s abortion at age 16 was a secret, at least to me. Somehow, I had chalked it up to youthful indiscretion; that’s the short and simple way to restate how I’d adjusted. For Rachel, it was impossible to digest. Or to cast outside her psyche.

I slipped my feet inside my house shoes and exited Leah’s bedroom, grabbing a quick gaze inside Lyndell’s bedroom across the hall. Oh, to go back in time, to happier days, the house bustling with mine and Rachel’s two teenagers, both adopted but happy when we moved to New Haven in 2000 and bought this house.

I did not linger. I descended the stairs, eager to take a shower in the master bathroom before driving to the cemetery. Although I had made progress, this pattern was more than habit. It was an addiction. For the first ten months after Rachel’s suicide, I began each day visiting her at Eastwood Cemetery, always arriving before dawn. Now, and for the past seven weeks, I had painfully reduced my fix to once per week, still arriving every Saturday before sunrise. The next expected step in my therapeutic recovery would be a once per month visit, but I doubted that would ever happen. Neither of us could survive with such infrequent injections: her dose of trust and loyalty I gave her, and my dose of practical needfulness she gave me.

***

I opted to skip the shower. The house was cold. So was I. It had been an unusually warm fall in New England, and I had not yet switched the unit to HEAT. It was time for cooler, if not colder, weather. I was inside our walk-in closet searching for warmer clothes when I heard my cell vibrating. I returned to the bathroom and grabbed my iPhone, face down on the granite vanity. It was odd my mother-in-law was calling so early. It was only 4:20.

“What’s wrong?” I said, knowing the news could not be good. I normally did not skip a cordial greeting.

“A good morning to you, too. I knew you would be up.” Since my student days in law school in the late 70s, I had been an early riser. Rachel and her mother were close. Rosa’s voice, always pleasant, always proper. Like Rachel’s. Both women had been English teachers.

“Sorry. Morning. I have been up for a while. Are you okay?” Rosa and Rob, in their mid-eighties, retired Southern Baptist missionaries, spent most of their married lives in China. They now shared a three-room suite at Bridgewood Gardens, an assisted living facility in Albertville, Alabama.

“I’m fine. We’re fine. Lee, I know this is short notice, but would you have some time to meet, maybe this morning?” It confused me. I live in New Haven, Connecticut. That’s a long way from the Yellowhammer state. I was unaware my in-laws had been planning a trip.

After an unnatural pause, I said, “sure.”

During the next several minutes, Rosa declared she and Rob were about an hour away, in New Rochelle, New York. Two days ago, they had felt “smothered” and planned a road trip, including a visit to see me. It had been too long. Almost a year, to be exact. The weekend we buried Rachel. Before Rosa ended our call, she said, “Lee, there’s also a legal issue we need to run by you.”

I suggested they come to the house around 7:00 but Rosa would not have it: “I don’t want to rekindle those memories, and practically, I don’t want you scurrying around to tidy up the place.”

I’d agreed and first recommended Denny’s on Sawmill Road, then changed my mind to Bella’s, my local favorite. It was downtown New Haven, near the law school. Although it made for a longer drive for us all, the food would be much better.

***

The drive to Eastwood Cemetery was only two miles, something Rachel had thought important when she insisted we purchase our burial plots. I would always believe it was more than coincidence she had demanded we complete our “pre-planning” four months before her death.

I turned left and slowed my speed to five miles per hour before passing beneath the rock archway. Beyond the entrance was sacred ground, according to Gordon, the head caretaker of the twenty-seven acres. The gently rolling hills with intricately aligned rows of headstones always reminded me of a game of dominoes, even though any toppling could not start the process given the widely spaced graves.

Even with minimal light, I could see Gordon already busy. He was loading his lawn mowers, weed eaters, and an assortment of tools on his work trailer when I passed the maintenance shed on my right. We exchanged waves, though I doubted he could see mine.

Rachel’s grave was on Gethsemane Trail. Eastwood had used the Bible as its only source for naming the perfectly designed pathways. The major routes, the tributaries—Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—formed a square, two running east and west and two north and south, all lying as a circumference on the outer reaches of the twenty-seven-acre tract. The trails sprouted from the tributaries and generally ran east and west.

I drove north on Luke and turned right on Gethsemane. Rachel’s grave was in the middle, on the upper side of the trail. I exited my Tahoe and removed the lawn chair from inside the rear hatch. The sun was just coming up when I positioned myself to the right of the headstone, just outside the stone foot-markers to Rachel’s plot. The thick grass was reaching for the sky. Gordon, the barber, would be along before noon with clippers and shears at the ready.

“Good morning, Rachel Anne.” She always hated me for verbalizing her middle name. I mostly honored her request while she was living, but now I wanted to be mean. Sort of. Since I would not dare cuss her or figuratively give her a beating, I resigned to the dastard-like greeting.

She did not respond but continued her early morning duties. I had always had a vivid imagination, and now was no different. I pictured the tall brunette scurrying around the kitchen before another day of teaching high school English, no doubt spreading an extra layer of mayonnaise on the sandwich she would eat at her desk while reading essays or developing lesson plans.

“You’d be proud of me.” I wondered if other husbands, widowers they’re called, visited their wives’ graves and talked to them as though sitting hand in hand in low slung chairs in burning sand watching the ocean waves roll forward.

“Why?” she said, tossing her silky hair to the side as her eyes stole a glance my way. She filled her Yeti with another cup of coffee, grabbed her lunchbox, blew me a kiss, and waited anxiously for my reply as she opened the back door to the deck.

“I’ve agreed to help Professor Stallings. With the interviewing.” My good friend, twenty years my senior, Bert Stallings, head of the law school’s civil torts department, had long promoted women’s rights. Rachel, while living, was not a big fan, but she was happy I had expanded my social network, something I had trouble doing ever since my childhood friend, Kyle Bennett, had gone missing in tenth grade.

“Good.” Rachel was off to Amity Regional High School without asking a single follow-up question.

I poured a cup of coffee from my old green Thermos. I had loved Rachel since the ninth grade. That was my secret. It was not until we were both in college that I shared my early high school infatuation.

It had happened suddenly, at first sight. It was the first day of school, a hot and muggy August morning in Mrs. Stamps’ English class. I’m sure I was a distant planet to the smart sounding girl sitting across the aisle and one seat forward. Probably, I was an undiscovered planet. Rachel was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. Later, at the midmorning break, I learned from Kyle that she and her brother, along with their missionary parents, had returned from China for a two-year furlough.

It was six years later, at the University of Virginia, that we had our first conversation. We both had been students living in Charlottesville for a year and a half, wholly unaware of the other’s presence, before our chance meeting in the Student Union. Rachel always called it a miracle. Less than a month later, we had our first date. By the end of summer, after our sophomore year, we married.

Another old memory arrived. During our ninth and tenth-grade years, I never generated the courage to talk to Rachel, much less ask her for a date. Eleventh grader Ray Archer had latched onto her by the second week of ninth grade. That was 1968. Now that I think about it, Rachel and family returned to China shortly after Christmas of tenth grade. No doubt breaking Ray’s heart.

My right leg suddenly cramped. Instantly I stood. The remains of my Thermos spilled onto the ground. I walked twice around Rachel’s grave to relieve the pain. I hated getting older. It was awful to be sixty-six, not that I was in poor health, but because of the mental pressure. I simply could not shake my guilt. Although Rachel had consoled me after her failed suicide attempt and surprise confession, I still strongly believed I was at fault. I should have helped the woman I had fallen in love with at first sight. It was my fault she had not found peace during those stressful six months before she toppled the chair beneath her noose. These guilty, gut-wrenching feelings were like what I had felt when Kyle had gone missing. My firm belief was that I had failed my best friend. After his disappearance, I was alone. I am alone now after Rachel’s suicide. The bottom line is, neither Kyle nor Rachel could trust me as a friend.

I stood for the longest next to Rachel’s headstone. Facing east, I felt the rising sun as though I was two feet from a heat lamp. I removed my hat, keeping my eyes closed. Until the depressing thoughts attacked. I reopened my eyes when the image appeared: toppled chair, rope, the limp body of the woman I loved, the one who kept me at a distance. My dead wife’s secrets proved we had never been truly intimate.

I returned to my lawn chair, this time facing west, and removed the Sand Mountain Reporter from my leather binder. Rachel insisted I read the obituaries from our hometown newspaper. It was Thursday’s edition. As usual, it was thin, two sections, maybe ten or twelve-pages total.

Local deaths were always on page 3. I turned there automatically as usual, hardly glancing at the front page. I started at the top. Rachel insisted I read every one. Aloud.

“Norma Jean Silvers of Douglas, passed away peacefully at home on Sunday, November 1, 2020. She was 93 years of age.” After reading Norma’s civic and social club memberships and leadership roles, I skipped her education, employment, and religious history. I hoped Rachel didn’t mind. The SMR could get rather windy.

Jorene Horton was up next. I lost my place when my iPhone rang. It was probably Rosa reminding me to bring the book she had asked me to mail. That was nearly a month ago, and I was still searching for it in Rachel’s library.

I stood and removed my cell from my front left pocket. It was Gordon, probably using the old Samsung I’d given him Labor Day as a birthday present.

“Hey my friend. Sorry I didn’t stop to chat when I arrived.”

“Not’s a problem. I seed you and hope you’s well.” Gordon was humble, the most decent person I knew. He had been caretaker at Eastwood since he was a teenager. I did not know how old he was now, but he’d told me the only time he’d been away from the cemetery was during the “big war.” Although I had never seen it, Gordon lives alone in a little cabin through a patch of hickory trees on the northwest corner of the cemetery, out-of-sight from the intersection of Matthew and John.

We talked for at least five minutes before he asked if starting his mower would upset me. He promised he would be almost out of earshot and would start on the far east end of Gethsemane. Of course, I did not mind.

I would have invited him over for a cup of coffee, but I was all out, and I was only halfway through the obits. I wished him well, but he’d already ended our call.

I checked the time before pocketing my iPhone. It was 6:16. Dang, I had to go. I folded the newspaper and tucked it inside my binder. “Sorry Rachel, I know you’ll understand my rush. Mom and Pop are in town. We’re meeting for breakfast. I sure wish you could join us.”

What is a novel?

In this post, I will attempt to define and contextualize the word ‘novel.’

Novel, story, narrative: what’s the difference?

It’s probably unnecessary to consider this question because in contemporary terms, and for most practical purposes, the three are virtually synonymous. But, having a ‘legal mind’ forces me to start at ground zero.

First, I’ll summarize what I’ll be attempting to say throughout this post. A novel is a description of imaginary people and related events arranged in a logical sequence to reveal a particular point of view or set of values.

In other words, a novel is a story. And, you already know a lot about story. It’s simply the telling of an event to a listener and the latter experiences or learns something just because he heard/read the story. A story can be either true or false.

A novel is a particular type of story, one that is ALWAYS fictional (not true in the sense it actually happened). Whereas a story or narrative can be either fiction (false) or non-fiction (true). A novel is always made-up, mostly from the author’s imagination, or an actual event, one either experienced, observed, or learned via reading, hearing, or by some other means.

In my last post, as to what was intended as an actual event, I provided an example of a guy who got snookered by a friend. A novel can be built (via fictionalization) around this, or it can become a memoir (an account of the author’s personal experiences), or an autobiography (a biography of yourself).

Merriam-Webster provides a good definition for the novel: “an invented prose narrative that is usually long and complex and deals especially with human experience through a usually connected sequence of events.” Notice that the word ‘narrative’ is used to define the word ‘novel.’

Before we look at ‘narrative,’ let’s flesh out Webster’s words. Invented obviously means it’s fiction. It’s made-up, created if you will. It’s made-up prose. Prose writing is ordinary writing, as distinguished from verse. Here’s an example of prose writing (the last sentence I wrote yesterday in my current novel-in-progress): “By twilight, with the goats fed and my impatience firing, I packed a bag and headed to Lillian’s vacant oasis.”

When I hear ‘verse,’ I think of poetry. Here’s a stanza of mine from a long ago poem:

“You melted my heart and mended my mind.
You gave me love and time,
a once in life discovery.
A unique couple, moonstruck but fiery.”

Not that good, but you get the idea.

One other thing about Webster’s definition. A novel is ALWAYS long—between 60,000 and 100,000 words. Compare that to a short story (another work of fictional prose) which typically runs between 5,000 to 10,000 words.

“A short story is a love affair, a novel is a marriage. A short story is a photograph; a novel is a film.”
Lorrie Moore

A novel is normally “complex and deals especially with human experience ….” This means there is a lot going on: the characters (likely, many), most all with differing wishes, desires, and conflicts. Plus, there are usually one or more subplots that are happening, all necessarily related to the main plot. Of course, not all novels deal with ‘human experience,’ but I’d wager that most do. Likely, because most people read fiction for two primary reasons: to be entertained, and to learn from experience without the experiencing part (I’ll leave you to figure that out).

“A novel must show how the world truly is, how characters genuinely think, how events actually occur. A novel should somehow reveal the true source of our actions.”
Kevin Hood, Becoming Jane

And, yes, I know there’s a lot more in this component of Webster’s definition that needs attention but today, we just don’t have the time.

Now we come to the word narrative. Recall, a novel is a story, a made-up one. Narrative is simply how you tell this made-up story. It is, “a spoken or written account of connected events,” to quote Google. But, narrative is much more.

A quote from Guillaume Wiatr (Principal and Founder of MetaHelm) excellently encapsulates the difference between story and narrative: “People will pay for a story, but people will die for a narrative.” I think what Guillaume means is that a story can grab our attention, entertaining us for the moment, but a narrative (how the story is told) can change us for a lifetime, “[i]t shifts the way we think, for good or for the worst[,]” again quoting Guillaume. He also says this in different words: “Someone died, and that was very wrong[,] starts a narrative that can turn into a revolution.”

Reconsider my summary definition from the beginning of this section: “A novel is a description of imaginary people and related events arranged in a logical sequence to reveal a particular point of view or set of values.” The underlined portion is the heart of narrative. To me, narrative produces theme, it reveals the meaning the writer has explored throughout his entire novel. He’s done this “… [b]y using characters, setting, dialog, plot or a combination of all of these elements[,]” as K.M Weiland says in writing your story’s THEME, a book I highly recommend.

Now that we’ve laid a foundation for understanding the literary form known as the novel, we must look at story structure. Knowing the framework of the ‘building’ you are trying to construct is imperative for writing a novel worth reading. I wish I had learned this much sooner.

We will look at story structure in my next post, but first, you need to understand what you’re getting into (writing a novel) is a challenging but highly rewarding endeavor. With only minor inconveniences as described by one of the greatest writers of all time:

“Writing a novel is a terrible experience, during which the hair often falls out and the teeth decay. I’m always irritated by people who imply that writing fiction is an escape from reality. It is a plunge into reality and it’s very shocking to the system.” ― Flannery O’Connor, Mystery and Manners: Occasional Prose
Flannery O’Connor, Mystery and Manners: Occasional Prose

Sign up for my Myths, Mysteries & Murders readers group and receive a FREE digital copy of The Boaz Scorekeeper: https://dl.bookfunnel.com/r6dwwflvxx. If you have already signed up, send me a message and I’ll forward you a copy.

Why should I write a novel?

In my last Post I lightly addressed a number of reasons why people want to write a novel. Since then, I’ve realized that all I clearly did was dance around the issue. Unwittingly, my own example of why I wrote God and Girl, revealed the hardcore truth, but I failed to articulate it in its broader application. I’ll try to do that here.

Earlier today I reread a wonderful article titled, “The Why is Most Important,” by author and book coach Jennie Nash. She deftly captures, in two words, what I was attempting to say in my God and Girl example: ambition and rage.

Ambition, as you know, is desire and drive. You likely are an ambitious person. You can look back over your life—no matter how long or short—and find evidence that you have set and achieved many goals. With each one, you had a desire to do something, along with the vibrant drive to get it done. We could both list many examples, some likely would be the same. For me, at age 39, I wanted to go to law school. I did and it took tremendous effort but somehow I worked my rear off, stuck with it, and graduated in the top 10% of my class. This example represents universal principles. You can apply them to most anything, including medical school, starting a business, building a house (or home; two very different things), or possibly, finding the perfect mate.

No doubt, ambition is a necessary component of your decision to write a novel. I can assure you, it’s not going to be easy. You are going to invest a tremendous amount of time and effort, so you must have the desire and drive, or you’ll likely quit after a few days of solitude (let me assure you, ‘the muse’ is mostly a myth). But, and this is where the rubber meets the road, ambition alone, although necessary, isn’t enough.

In a sense, ambition deals with the external (it likely includes the desire to make a name for yourself). But the most important ‘why’ is to look deep inside and find the internal reason you want to write a book. This is where you will find the rage. More specifically, your rage provides the perfect reason to write a novel. Let’s see why by starting with the definition of rage in its use as a noun.

It is a “feeling of intense anger,” illustrated by “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” It’s also defined as “something that is desired intensely.” Wow, wait, there’s that word again. Desire. The dictionary offers this example: “his rage for fame destroyed him.” Or, said another way, “his desire for fame destroyed him.”

“Why am I compelled to write? . . . Because the world I create in the writing compensates for what the real world does not give me. By writing I put order in the world, give it a handle so I can grasp it. I write because life does not appease my appetites and anger . . . To become more intimate with myself and you. To discover myself, to preserve myself, to make myself, to achieve self-autonomy. To dispel the myths that I am a mad prophet or a poor suffering soul. To convince myself that I am worthy and that what I have to say is not a pile of shit . . . Finally I write because I’m scared of writing, but I’m more scared of not writing.”
Gloria E. Anzaldua

In the context of, “Why should I write a novel?”, I encourage you to ask yourself another question: “what am I angry about?” Or, similarly, “what is the one thing that makes me the most angry?” Substitute passion if you like (something that is desired intensely). Whichever word you choose, your answer likely involves pain, both past, present, and ongoing, along with the desire to strike back, to get even with someone or something.

I’ll close with an example that comes to mind. Let’s say that several years ago you and your best friend started a business. For a while, things went great and future prospects were bright. In fact, the business did phenomenally well. At some point your partner/friend asked if he could buy you out. His offer was more money than you ever hoped to make. So, you accepted and the deal was closed.

A few months later, you learned your partner/friend stabbed you in the back. Unbeknown to you, there was a deal to be made with an international company that, if you’d been an owner, would have netted you a billion dollars. Instead, the partner (no longer your friend) wound up thousands of times richer than you, all because he desired money more than his friendship and duties to you. In essence, you got snookered. And, the years have ticked on by while the old partner’s net worth and community respect blasted skyward, while you have squandered away what now appears to have been a mere pittance of what you should have been paid.

Over these same years your anger has intensified but now, for many reasons, you have no legal recourse, and you don’t want to spend the rest of your life in an 8 foot by 8 foot jail cell. So, murder is out of the question. Or, is it?

“Oh,” some might say, “the balm of Gilead.” That’s the soothing physical and spiritual ointment your novel can provide. Yes, it’s fiction (the names are changed to protect the ‘innocent’), but yet, it’s true, or can be for you. This is why you should write a novel.

Find what makes you angry, and, along with ambition, you’ll find the powerful forces that will propel you to the finish line.

Get the ‘why’ right first. Then, you can eagerly pursue the ‘how.’

“When I sit down to write a book, I do not say to myself, ‘I am going to produce a work of art.’ I write it because there is some lie that I want to expose, some fact to which I want to draw attention, and my initial concern is to get a hearing.”
George Orwell

I’d be honored if you would join my Myths, Mysteries & Murders readers group.

Processing…

Success! You're on the list.

Whoops! There was an error and we couldn't process your subscription. Please reload the page and try again.

Why should I read The Pencil Driven Life blog?

Because you want to write a book but don’t know how. This means you are a beginner.

That’s exactly where I was five and a half years ago. I’m still a beginner but I have learned a few things from writing ten novels, things you can learn by reading and digesting this blog.

Let’s pause a minute. I declared in my first sentence that you want to write a book. That was a little presumptuous of me. Maybe you would say, “no, I have no desire to write a book.” Although accurate statistics are hard to come by, writer Joseph Epstein says, “81 percent of Americans feel that they have a book in them — and should write it.” This of course doesn’t include you. Right?

I humbly request you humor me for a few minutes and seriously consider joining the huge percentage of Americans who want to write a book?

Thanks. Let me start with my reasons before moving on to more common, maybe universal, reasons. Succinctly put, I didn’t like the local (aka the heart of the Bible Belt) negative reaction to Obergefell v. Hodges, 576 U.S. 644 (2015), the landmark civil rights case in which the Supreme Court of the United States ruled the fundamental right to marry is guaranteed to same-sex couples by both the Due Process Clause and the Equal Protection Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not gay nor did I have a special interest in this subject. What I held sacrosanct was individual freedom, the right to choose one’s own actions absent government and religious interference, as long as the parties do no harm. As expected, the local negative reaction followed a predictable storyline anchored in Holy Writ: same-sex relationships are sin and thus abhorrent to the Christian God.

My idea was to dispel this notion, or more accurately, to explore whether two people of the same gender can truly love each other. It didn’t take long for my imagination to create Ruthie and Ellen, two teens who, well, fell in love, My book title, God and Girl, soon followed.

No doubt there were other factors that influenced my decision to write my first novel. I can think of two: a creative writing seminar over twenty years earlier I’d attended on a Saturday while in law school; and my frustration and tiredness from years of reading craft books on writing instead of actually writing.

That’s about me, and why I wrote my first novel. Now, let’s list (not in any order) a few common (universal?) reasons I believe are worthy of your consideration.

1) To create something from nothing. Actually, it’s not nothing. But, almost. Your imagination is not nothing, but that, along with determination, and a commitment of time, will get you there. No million dollar bulldozers required.

2) To prove to yourself (or others) you can eat the entire elephant. Said another way, that you can complete a complex and difficult task.

3) To leave a legacy. You can leave money and land to your descendants but how will your great grands know it was you, alone, who created that wealth? Nothing but a book is as personal as the story inside your head, or expresses your individual accomplishments.

4) To do something that only a tiny percentage of all people have ever done.

5) To fictionally murder your worst enemy without going to jail.

Personally, I think the following are poor reasons to write a novel:
1) to become famous;
2) to get rich;
3) to get on the New York Times Bestseller list.
These are too ephemeral. You’ll likely bale if one of these is your initiating force.

“Close the door. Write with no one looking over your shoulder. Don’t try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It’s the one and only thing you have to offer.”
Barbara Kingsolver

Now, I assume you have at least a smidgen of interest in writing your own novel. If not, you probably wouldn’t have read this far. Let me restate my initial question: “Why should I read The Pencil Driven Life blog?” The answer is simple: to go from wanting to write your first novel to holding in your hand your first novel.

I admit, it might be easier and quicker to accomplish this goal if you availed yourself of my coaching services, but that’s not required. Ashamedly, until recently, I have done it the hard way, without hiring a coach, attending a conference, or enrolling in a course. However, this doesn’t mean I haven’t learned a few things during these five and a half years. That’s what I intend to share in my blog.

Things like what writing software to use (no, I don’t write my novels in pencil!), how to choose and develop an idea, how to outline your novel even if you are a pantser (you write from the seat of your pants, without outlining), and how to structure your writing. By the way, my software choice is Scrivener.

Writing a novel takes time, a lot. And it’s difficult. However, from what I’ve learned, it is completely doable even for the beginner. The key is to break the tasks down into bite-size pieces. And take as much time as you want: a year, two years, five years. You decide; it’s your novel. Write it for yourself.

It would honor me to have you Follow my blog.

“It’s none of their business that you have to learn how to write. Let them think you were born that way.”
Ernest Hemingway