First off, I can\u2019t believe almost a month\u2019s flown since my last post. And tomorrow is summer\u2019s official end. I picture those final days unspooling like fabric from a giant roll. The leading edge is the intense blue of late-August sky; then the material ombres toward rust and gold. We\u2019re at bolt\u2019s end now, the last length slipping from the cardboard core, about to spill free. It seems impossible we\u2019re packing away summer 2013, but it\u2019s happening. It always does. Same as ever. For me, though, this summer held a major difference.<\/p>\n
Technically, at least by the standards of the traditional working world, I didn\u2019t \u201cwork\u201d much this summer\u2014except for a few Friday hours at the office job I\u2019ve held for years. My father runs the place; it\u2019s family duty, sweetened with a paycheck. The last few summers have also included a contract at the college where I teach. I\u2019ve taught (creative writing, a blast) and spent hours, desk-tethered, fulfilling admin duties as co-coordinator of our First Year Experience program (less glamorous than it sounds). <\/p>\n
This summer, I vowed, would be different. Because, this summer, I am different<\/strong>. This is my first summer as a published novelist. Let\u2019s take a moment, allow that to sink in\u2026okay, it\u2019ll take more than a moment. I\u2019ll continue. As a published novelist\u2014yeah, too pretentious. As a writer, I figured I should write. In fact, I spent the last half of spring semester telling folks at school I\u2019d spend this summer writing my next book, sharing my intent to dive in \u201cthe minute the semester ends.\u201d Even as I repeated this mantra, I knew I was setting up a crazy-impossible expectation.<\/p>\n The voice in my head kept saying, \u201cReally? It took you over FIVE YEARS to write the first one. You honestly think you can crank out another over summer vacation?\u201d My head voice rarely says anything positive. I swear I should just tune it out. Anyway, at semester\u2019s end, I dove right in. And it was like that time I crashed nose-first into the cement bottom of the park pool. Stunningly painful, and not especially productive. <\/p>\n I spent weeks toiling (for no immediate pay; according to Parlato Family Tradition, that\u2019s not work) on two different drafts\u2014with mounting frustration. One\u2019s a ghost story set in a Cape-May-like seaside town; the other\u2019s a contemporary YA with a Holocaust link. Both were basically dead in the water, though I think they\u2019ll happen in time.<\/p>\n At a loss to write, I floundered, wondering if I\u2019d screwed up not taking that college contract. Maybe I needed the pressure of a \u201creal job\u201d for motivation. As I brooded, my friend, Andrea, wisely reminded me to savor the accomplishment of my first book. My wife, Janet, ever supportive, regularly assured me The Namesake<\/em> was not a fluke. Though still plagued by angsty doubt, I enjoyed making a bunch of cool appearances in support of that book I\u2019d actually managed to successfully complete. At a couple of these events, actual copies were sold. One was even a paying gig. I was earning money as a writer\u2014even if we weren\u2019t quite able to afford a world tour (more like an occasional day trip) yet. <\/p>\n Still struggling on the ghost story, I decided it might be good to devote some time to reading\u2014after all, I was a big, fat writing dud. I read Andrew Smith\u2019s Winger<\/a><\/em> (awesome, quirky voice); my friend, Bill Bless\u2019s book, Whoever We May Be At Last<\/a><\/em> (gorgeous poetry and prose); the witty and moving manuscript of an essay collection, Flip-flops After Fifty<\/em><\/a>, by my friend, Cindy Eastman; some poetry collections; and other stuff I can\u2019t recall right now. Inspiration began, if not to strike, at least to tickle. Then I had my epiphany.<\/p>\n