Chris Parks's Blog
July 4, 2013
Why I wrote Poco Bueno
Most of the guys I know muse about wanting to quit their jobs and escape. This feeling, this longing for adventure, is what the series that begins with Poco Bueno is all about. These books will trace the arc of the main character, Stokes, through his life and his new career. In this first novel, Stokes breaks free of Houston society and launches a television show which features glamorous, million-dollar yachts with crews who compete in exotic tournament locations around the world.
But why would I write something like this? To answer the question honestly, and allow a full assessment of my motives, I feel it is necessary to share some information about myself.
Twenty-five years ago, a story of mine appeared in Tulane Law School’s quarterly magazine. It was based on a near-death experience while driving a Porsche. In the story, however, the experience was not near-death, but death. The narrative followed my thoughts in the minute or so after my head was severed by a collision with the trailing edge of a flatbed truck. The stump of my neck landed on a discarded Coke can on the floor, and my face lay in the path of a warm pool of blood seeping across the coarse, gray carpet. Anyway, that was what happened before the cop picked me up by the hair—but I digress. The point of the action was to grab the attention of my fellow students and professors with a gruesome event and then to slip them the message that it’s later than we think and we’d best get on with living our lives rather than incessantly planning for the future—which is what we were doing.
Today, I can recall three distinct conversations where classmates wanted to discuss that story: what possessed me to write it; the effect it had on them in law school; and, whether I had published anything else. These conversations were both flattering and distressing: flattering, obviously, because others had read my work and been influenced by it; distressing because I had obnoxiously huge debts and two small children. Writing on spec did not seem like a viable option, so I practiced law.
I kept writing: stories for my kids; a piece for the six children of a close friend who died of cancer—telling them about their dad. I also wrote a screenplay for an animated feature which I pitched to Disney. They passed. Along the way, I scribbled out dozens of book ideas, short stories, diary entries, and notes to myself in the course of financial scheming and planning. But my focus was law and, fortunately, I was good at it. One day, twenty years after I started practicing, I found myself able to pursue writing.
Again, I confess all this so you can assess my motives in writing Poco Bueno. What I have tried to put in this novel is the secret life men lead today—the quiet struggle between acting responsibly and earning a living and taking a risk.
My job, as I saw it when I began this series, was to entertain, to communicate an uplifting message to guys who were stuck in their jobs. But long before I started to write, my world view was shaped by my own experiences practicing law across the Gulf Coast. The subject matter was what I know best, and I have no desire to run from my past. I do, however, feel a deep obligation to give a guy—like the guy I was for twenty years—an escape from his routine and allow him to experience a realistic, modern adventure through the characters of this story.
My motives in writing Poco can roughly be placed in three categories: ego; taste; and my attempt at tapping into some kind of truth in order to shape the outlook of a reader.
I’m an unapologetic egotist. I want people to talk about my work. I’m obviously bragging when I recall the conversations where students asked about my law school story. And, this is certainly one of the prime driving forces behind Poco Bueno. I have my own personal standards that have been forged over time, and these guide my judgment. Fortunately, they also guard my ego, protecting me from the criticisms like a thick skin, and allowing me to enjoy the little triumphs, like having someone say, “Heh, I liked your story.” For that, I’m eternally grateful. I also decided years ago that if I wanted something, no one was going to give it to me, I had to take it. Not illegally, not immorally, but by force nonetheless. When I started this story I thought, someone is going to write the next great “guys book,” the book you buy your dad for Father’s Day or as a present for a divorced friend on his birthday. Someone is going to be the next “men’s novelist,” and I wanted, and want, that someone to be me.
To me, taste is second only to tension in a story. Tension keeps the pages turning, but taste—the correct arrangement of words and gestures and characters—is what builds trust between the reader and the writer. The wrong adjective or a clunky bit of dialogue can ruin any passage. One of the reasons I’ve always written, and rewritten, is the aesthetic challenge—to craft just the right combination of words to deliver a story that feels real to me and, hopefully, to others. In short, part of the reason I write is that I want to read something I like. And, getting back to my first motive, I’m enough of a narcissist to believe that if I like it, others will too.
Finally, I’m a believer in the theory that if you can document real life in an authentic way, your story will resonate with readers. In Poco, I tried desperately to place Stokes in real-life situations, like divorce; fear of losing a job; and the shock at the betrayal of others. I also tried to write dialogue as it really sounds to me (especially when I’m on a boat with the guys for three days.) My motive in doing this was to draw readers into the story in order to skew their view of the future ever so slightly. My hope is that when a guy finishes Poco, he’ll walk away with a good feeling that lingers for a while after he puts it down. And maybe, if I have done my job right, that reader will have a slightly more optimistic view of his own daily struggles, a view that acknowledges it is the struggle itself, the simple tedious details of the day, that can add up to a nice life. It’s a view that says we can all go on if we can find some joy in the details.
Naturally, none of these motives worked alone in my head when I was writing this story. They fought it out amongst each other. But with this background I can tell you that I wanted to construct a story an outdoorsman would enjoy (Not necessarily a fisherman, but a guy who enjoys being outside and active.). Stokes has the characteristics all men relate to: he’s honest, hard-working, and enthusiastic. He’s not whining about his lot in life, but he is trying to better himself. There was a specific feeling I tried to tap into in Poco; the thought—maybe even the myth—that one day we can escape our private, repetitive lives and have real adventure; that we might someday take that perfect trip, with that perfect someone, and just . . . extend that feeling forever.
Writing this story, and outlining the rest of the series, has been a joy: to take a thousand snippets of truth and lies and cobble them together into a good yarn with a little message; to entertain myself—make myself snicker stupidly over a subtle joke; and to hope someone, sometime in the future, will get the joke, laugh to themselves and go on; that is why I wrote it. I’m selfishly writing for that one high . . . the hope that, for a moment, I can connect with the reader and make him smile.
My guess is that most people would love to write if they had the opportunity. Personally, I know if I had only six months to live, I’d spend it with my family and friends, but each night, after I retired from the world, I’d write for every spare minute, trying to record on paper the thoughts that were in my head. That must be vanity, but I believe I would do it even if I knew my papers would be burned; even if I were the last soul on earth, I’d do it. And, I’d scratch things out too. I would try to combine words on a page in a way that pleased me, even if it were only me that would ever read them. Why I would do such a thing, I have no idea, but I’m sure writing makes me feel like I have a purpose and a reason for being here. It’s challenging and engaging. Unlocking the potential of a story, putting what strengths I may have into it—my experience, my own unique, gathered store of facts and knowledge—shaping a set of expectations on paper and then rewarding them with conclusions, all these things have a magnetic draw I don’t bother to comprehend.
But there is one thing I’m sure of: if someone does read something I’ve written and expresses appreciation which I deem sincere, the connection that is established with that person, however fleeting, that to me is the very essence of life. Twenty people have read Poco Bueno, a dozen for their individual expertise on subjects in the book, and a few because they are close to me and could help edit the manuscript, but a few have been total strangers. One stranger in particular, the adult son of a professional fisherman and captain, read it and told me this: “You know that law degree you got, you might as well just throw that mother fucker away and keep writing because this is great!” That—that’s why I wrote it. That’s why I’ll keep writing.
But why would I write something like this? To answer the question honestly, and allow a full assessment of my motives, I feel it is necessary to share some information about myself.
Twenty-five years ago, a story of mine appeared in Tulane Law School’s quarterly magazine. It was based on a near-death experience while driving a Porsche. In the story, however, the experience was not near-death, but death. The narrative followed my thoughts in the minute or so after my head was severed by a collision with the trailing edge of a flatbed truck. The stump of my neck landed on a discarded Coke can on the floor, and my face lay in the path of a warm pool of blood seeping across the coarse, gray carpet. Anyway, that was what happened before the cop picked me up by the hair—but I digress. The point of the action was to grab the attention of my fellow students and professors with a gruesome event and then to slip them the message that it’s later than we think and we’d best get on with living our lives rather than incessantly planning for the future—which is what we were doing.
Today, I can recall three distinct conversations where classmates wanted to discuss that story: what possessed me to write it; the effect it had on them in law school; and, whether I had published anything else. These conversations were both flattering and distressing: flattering, obviously, because others had read my work and been influenced by it; distressing because I had obnoxiously huge debts and two small children. Writing on spec did not seem like a viable option, so I practiced law.
I kept writing: stories for my kids; a piece for the six children of a close friend who died of cancer—telling them about their dad. I also wrote a screenplay for an animated feature which I pitched to Disney. They passed. Along the way, I scribbled out dozens of book ideas, short stories, diary entries, and notes to myself in the course of financial scheming and planning. But my focus was law and, fortunately, I was good at it. One day, twenty years after I started practicing, I found myself able to pursue writing.
Again, I confess all this so you can assess my motives in writing Poco Bueno. What I have tried to put in this novel is the secret life men lead today—the quiet struggle between acting responsibly and earning a living and taking a risk.
My job, as I saw it when I began this series, was to entertain, to communicate an uplifting message to guys who were stuck in their jobs. But long before I started to write, my world view was shaped by my own experiences practicing law across the Gulf Coast. The subject matter was what I know best, and I have no desire to run from my past. I do, however, feel a deep obligation to give a guy—like the guy I was for twenty years—an escape from his routine and allow him to experience a realistic, modern adventure through the characters of this story.
My motives in writing Poco can roughly be placed in three categories: ego; taste; and my attempt at tapping into some kind of truth in order to shape the outlook of a reader.
I’m an unapologetic egotist. I want people to talk about my work. I’m obviously bragging when I recall the conversations where students asked about my law school story. And, this is certainly one of the prime driving forces behind Poco Bueno. I have my own personal standards that have been forged over time, and these guide my judgment. Fortunately, they also guard my ego, protecting me from the criticisms like a thick skin, and allowing me to enjoy the little triumphs, like having someone say, “Heh, I liked your story.” For that, I’m eternally grateful. I also decided years ago that if I wanted something, no one was going to give it to me, I had to take it. Not illegally, not immorally, but by force nonetheless. When I started this story I thought, someone is going to write the next great “guys book,” the book you buy your dad for Father’s Day or as a present for a divorced friend on his birthday. Someone is going to be the next “men’s novelist,” and I wanted, and want, that someone to be me.
To me, taste is second only to tension in a story. Tension keeps the pages turning, but taste—the correct arrangement of words and gestures and characters—is what builds trust between the reader and the writer. The wrong adjective or a clunky bit of dialogue can ruin any passage. One of the reasons I’ve always written, and rewritten, is the aesthetic challenge—to craft just the right combination of words to deliver a story that feels real to me and, hopefully, to others. In short, part of the reason I write is that I want to read something I like. And, getting back to my first motive, I’m enough of a narcissist to believe that if I like it, others will too.
Finally, I’m a believer in the theory that if you can document real life in an authentic way, your story will resonate with readers. In Poco, I tried desperately to place Stokes in real-life situations, like divorce; fear of losing a job; and the shock at the betrayal of others. I also tried to write dialogue as it really sounds to me (especially when I’m on a boat with the guys for three days.) My motive in doing this was to draw readers into the story in order to skew their view of the future ever so slightly. My hope is that when a guy finishes Poco, he’ll walk away with a good feeling that lingers for a while after he puts it down. And maybe, if I have done my job right, that reader will have a slightly more optimistic view of his own daily struggles, a view that acknowledges it is the struggle itself, the simple tedious details of the day, that can add up to a nice life. It’s a view that says we can all go on if we can find some joy in the details.
Naturally, none of these motives worked alone in my head when I was writing this story. They fought it out amongst each other. But with this background I can tell you that I wanted to construct a story an outdoorsman would enjoy (Not necessarily a fisherman, but a guy who enjoys being outside and active.). Stokes has the characteristics all men relate to: he’s honest, hard-working, and enthusiastic. He’s not whining about his lot in life, but he is trying to better himself. There was a specific feeling I tried to tap into in Poco; the thought—maybe even the myth—that one day we can escape our private, repetitive lives and have real adventure; that we might someday take that perfect trip, with that perfect someone, and just . . . extend that feeling forever.
Writing this story, and outlining the rest of the series, has been a joy: to take a thousand snippets of truth and lies and cobble them together into a good yarn with a little message; to entertain myself—make myself snicker stupidly over a subtle joke; and to hope someone, sometime in the future, will get the joke, laugh to themselves and go on; that is why I wrote it. I’m selfishly writing for that one high . . . the hope that, for a moment, I can connect with the reader and make him smile.
My guess is that most people would love to write if they had the opportunity. Personally, I know if I had only six months to live, I’d spend it with my family and friends, but each night, after I retired from the world, I’d write for every spare minute, trying to record on paper the thoughts that were in my head. That must be vanity, but I believe I would do it even if I knew my papers would be burned; even if I were the last soul on earth, I’d do it. And, I’d scratch things out too. I would try to combine words on a page in a way that pleased me, even if it were only me that would ever read them. Why I would do such a thing, I have no idea, but I’m sure writing makes me feel like I have a purpose and a reason for being here. It’s challenging and engaging. Unlocking the potential of a story, putting what strengths I may have into it—my experience, my own unique, gathered store of facts and knowledge—shaping a set of expectations on paper and then rewarding them with conclusions, all these things have a magnetic draw I don’t bother to comprehend.
But there is one thing I’m sure of: if someone does read something I’ve written and expresses appreciation which I deem sincere, the connection that is established with that person, however fleeting, that to me is the very essence of life. Twenty people have read Poco Bueno, a dozen for their individual expertise on subjects in the book, and a few because they are close to me and could help edit the manuscript, but a few have been total strangers. One stranger in particular, the adult son of a professional fisherman and captain, read it and told me this: “You know that law degree you got, you might as well just throw that mother fucker away and keep writing because this is great!” That—that’s why I wrote it. That’s why I’ll keep writing.
