A Few Years Later—Still Nothing Finished
Fast forward now to 2001, and a lot has happened in my life since the conception of Kennison’s Foil. My wife had gotten the opportunity to transfer to Florida, the place we had always vacationed, so I quit my very lucrative sales job, and off we went.
Two years, and one severe heart attack for me later, and my wife’s Florida job fizzles out, and we were back in Ohio again—but only briefly, and then we were off to another position in Salt Lake City. This is good. I’m writing again, we’re taking trips all over the area, skiing, and having a good old time. Eight months later, and another severe heart attack for me, this one on the ski slopes, and we get the chance to head to warmer weather in Las Vegas—and we’re off again.
In the intervening years, I had lost my mother, a sister, two brothers, a nephew, and a brother-in-law. So a year or so in Vegas, I start thinking about my own mortality, and figure out that if I’m ever going to actually write a novel, I’d better get to it very soon, or I may not live to see one finished.
But now, I no longer had dreams of writing “The Great American Novel”, and becoming rich and famous. My goals had been moderated drastically. At that point in my life, I wanted desperately to just get from the beginning of a story, through the middle, and finally be able to write, “The End”.
I didn’t talk about it much, but I did have a glint of a dream left, and that was to see my name on the cover of my book. I had led a very good life, traveled to many places, and at that point, I just wanted to leave behind something with my name on it—something that said, “I was here once too.”
Deciding that come hell or high water, I had to finish a story; I opened my writing files, and for some unknown reason, I took out Kennison’s Foil—now attached with many scribbled notes, and ideas, but virtually nothing of any consequence written. To this day I don’t know why I chose that story from among the many that I had half-written, but thankfully, I did.
A challenge and the mystically surreal parts come next …
Two years, and one severe heart attack for me later, and my wife’s Florida job fizzles out, and we were back in Ohio again—but only briefly, and then we were off to another position in Salt Lake City. This is good. I’m writing again, we’re taking trips all over the area, skiing, and having a good old time. Eight months later, and another severe heart attack for me, this one on the ski slopes, and we get the chance to head to warmer weather in Las Vegas—and we’re off again.
In the intervening years, I had lost my mother, a sister, two brothers, a nephew, and a brother-in-law. So a year or so in Vegas, I start thinking about my own mortality, and figure out that if I’m ever going to actually write a novel, I’d better get to it very soon, or I may not live to see one finished.
But now, I no longer had dreams of writing “The Great American Novel”, and becoming rich and famous. My goals had been moderated drastically. At that point in my life, I wanted desperately to just get from the beginning of a story, through the middle, and finally be able to write, “The End”.
I didn’t talk about it much, but I did have a glint of a dream left, and that was to see my name on the cover of my book. I had led a very good life, traveled to many places, and at that point, I just wanted to leave behind something with my name on it—something that said, “I was here once too.”
Deciding that come hell or high water, I had to finish a story; I opened my writing files, and for some unknown reason, I took out Kennison’s Foil—now attached with many scribbled notes, and ideas, but virtually nothing of any consequence written. To this day I don’t know why I chose that story from among the many that I had half-written, but thankfully, I did.
A challenge and the mystically surreal parts come next …
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