When you write for a living, it’s sometimes easier to remember certain eras by what you were working on than by the actual date. I don’t remember when precisely I moved back to California, but I do remember I was staying with my brother in Mission Viejo when I wrote a short story from the perspective of Maxwell’s Silver Hammer. (I thought I was very clever; my partner at the time thought it was a waste of time. Time has proven her right.)
I was clearing out some old documents last week when I unearthed my Certificate of Registration for Working Class Villain, the book I spent nearly three years and 1,000 pages of my life writing in hopes that it would be my first published novel. The effective date of registration is June 17, 2013.
I’ve been depressed about this book for years. The book outlasted relationships, apartments, and at least three jobs; it became my solace and my punishment. I’d come home from doing work I hated, make myself some dinner, and then write until I fell asleep. On weekends I’d read books on gangs, motorcycles, physics, and Los Angeles infrastructure, because all of that mattered to the story. I deliberately kept my apartment bare of internet or television, so badly did I want to focus myself on this one seemingly impossible task.
Finishing the book was one of the highlights of my life. A lot has happened since then - a marriage, a mortgage, and two children - so I can no longer say it was the best moment of my life. But at the time, writing that final sentence - even knowing I had several more drafts ahead of me - was, in the true sense of the word, sublime.
I loved myself in that moment. I loved myself for following it all the way through. I loved every book that helped me write that book. I loved every person for lending me their personality to write into that book. I loved every moment that led to that moment. I quit my job, I had a drink.
I wrote the whole thing longhand, and it took six weeks just to type it all up. I do not recommend doing this.
Anyway, cut to a couple years later and I’ve failed to find any publisher or agent willing to give it a shot. Some tantalizing “almosts,” no final “there.” In the end, in hopes of getting my name out there, I self-published it as not one but four volumes. It was a big book.
2013.
Eight years ago. Where did the time go?
It went everywhere. It went through nights performing onstage and up and down PCH. It went into the most rewarding relationship of my life. It went through a side gig as a romance author, a gig that still continues to pay dividends today. It went from Long Beach to Huntington and back again. It went to my dog, my favorite asshole.
And still, it seems like yesterday that I tried to procrastinate on those last few pages, stepped outside onto 4th Street, and immediately got rained on. I ran back inside and wrote the damn thing to its conclusion.
I’ve written a lot of fiction since I finished Working Class Villain, and under many different names. I’ve written more than a hundred books of romance and smut that sell on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, Apple, and elsewhere, but nothing I put my Christian name on.
So I’m going to try again. I’m going to write another book. And I’m going to try keeping up this blog to keep myself honest.
I’ve unpublished Working Class Villain. Maybe I’ll turn it into a podcast.
That’s all for now.