The end of innocence

I really should not be writing this. Something is driving me to it I can't explain.

I have a friend whom I have known for over a decade now. We are not as close as we once were. He’s written his first novel, or at least a first draft. The work started out as a travel piece, evolved into a novella, and finally into a manuscript of about 300 pages.

He gave me his draft of the novella awhile ago, and asked me to do some basic editing of it. I made two passes through it. After the first pass, I wrote up a summary of what worked and what did not work for me, and tried to hide that I found it a terrible piece of writing. I took a red pen to his prose during the second reading and marked each page in detail where I found some rather obvious stylistic mistakes. The kind of advice you get in some of the how-to-write-a-novel books.

He was appreciative of the work I did with my red pen. He was stung and hurt by my more important criticism of his work, for he considered himself close to being an accomplished fiction writer. That is the risk one takes when editing a friend’s manuscript. I should have known better, for I am not an accomplished fiction writer or editor, and I am certainly not literary, his term for me, just because I read and enjoy fiction. Things between us have not been the same. The combination of his expectations and my foolishness in undertaking a task I was not qualified for created the situation.

During the past several months, he put what he felt were the finishing touches to his novel. He gave it to an accomplished poet and writer for editing. OK, great idea. But he paid her a princely sum for doing the work.

I saw him in the local bar last night, the bar where we had struck up our acquaintanceship long ago. He avoided talking to me, which I found a little odd, since I was sitting with people all of whom are his friends. Finally, he struck up a conversation with me after everyone had left. He was very drunk and very agitated. I was stone cold sober, for I had been nursing beers at an alarmingly slow rate during the evening.

He received his manuscript back from his friend yesterday during a meeting with her and her friends. They had written a seven page summary of the novel. They discussed what they liked and did not. He tried to put the best spin on his meeting. However, he admitted they told him he was far from being an accomplished fiction writer. At that point, I could tell he was crushed by the news. He has a big ego that needs feeding all the time.

He walked away to speak to someone for a moment. I tried to think of something to say when he returned. I felt very sorry he was taking it badly and trying to hide his disappointment.

He has written the first draft of a first novel. Of course, it is going to suck. For some reason he thought he could short cut the work through ego alone. He has read very little fiction in his life. That has to be a big handicap too. It never hurts to learn a few tricks first hand from the great ones whom you like.

He stopped drinking and left. I went to McDonald’s for the two cheeseburger value meal.

He’s on vacation this coming week with friends. That ought to help more than anything I could say to him.

Quite frankly, I like my pain and disappointment in small doses each day when I finish writing and realize that I have written a load of pure shit. There’s always hope the next day will go better. Even Hemingway said all first drafts are shit.

After all, I’m a Cubs fan too. Masochism comes naturally to me.