With the writing finished, the publisher told us they’d love to put us on tour. She jumped at the opportunity, said yes, that she’d never been on a book tour and couldn’t wait. Then she turned to me, thinking I would be equally excited. I said, “No, I’d rather not. Book tours really aren’t my cup of tea.”
She doesn’t like being told no.
I told her to get used to it.
She pouted. Then she said, “Please.”
So, I’m packing. So is Steady. Said he wouldn’t miss this for the world. I, on the other hand, am selfish and I miss my hammock. Miss the quiet of the Glades. Miss the crimson sun off the tip of my toe. Miss the quiet rhythm of the tides. Miss the sound of my drag being peeled backward. Miss the kids at the hospital, where I’m now a regular. Katie picked up on my pity party and promised to get me back a day or so a week. She has a jet, so…
The tour starts at the hospital. Reading to the kids. We thought it fitting. Plus, they all wanted their picture with Katie. They like my stories but they love her.
This morning, Katie and I were guests on a live show. They sent a team to Gone Fiction to film us. Set us up on the deck. Sun coming up. Trout feeding in the current just off the bow. Smoke from Steady’s pipe wafting over us. The anchor turned to Katie. “The book is entitled Unbecoming Me. Can you tell us about that?”
Katie never blinked. “Two reasons: When I was young, given my general physical appearance, I was told that I was unbecoming. Since then, I’ve tried to unbecome me. But doing so was like dying every day.” She turned to me. “I went to bed dead. Woke up dead. Never knowing who I saw in the mirror. Ever fearful of resurrecting someone I can’t be.” She shook her head and grabbed my hand. “Peter… changed that.”
“How so?”
A confident smile. “He taught me how to live without a script. A life where I get to write the words that become me.”
The anchor turned to me, smiling. “It would appear that Piet Hein did not, in fact, get the better of Pirate Pete.”
It was a good opening. I smiled. “The end of that story has yet to be written.”
A nod. “A lot of readers will be glad to hear that. And none more giddy than my kids.” He straightened, changing topics. “Nonfiction is a new venture for you.”
“Yes.”
“The book comes out tomorrow. As of this morning, preorders have placed it at number one. A lot of people are watching this broadcast right now, curious about you and this story. Wondering if you still have it. So, do you?”
Katie held my hand. Smiling. I said, “I don’t know if I still have ‘it,’ meaning the gift of writing.” I waved my hand across the camera. “You’ll have to be the judge of that.”
“What can you tell us about the story?”
I crossed my legs and said, “Allow an analogy. Imagine me carrying around a bag. Maybe like a big laundry bag that spans the length of my back—right shoulder to left cheek. Maybe it reminds you of pictures of Santa Claus that you saw as a kid only this isn’t really a bag of gifts I’m all that excited about giving to somebody. In fact, I’d rather keep it hidden because inside the bag are a bunch of broken pieces—like a million—that once made up me. See, I was once one piece but then something happened and I broke, or shattered, and now I am many. Then, you and I meet and I realize that you’re bleeding ’cause you’ve been broken, too, and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could never put you back together again. And then I realize you’re fading and in need of triage. You won’t last the night. So, I give you the only thing I have—I hand you my bag and tell you that you can have any or all of those pieces to stuff in the wound. And what’s more, they don’t cost you anything. They’re free. I paid for them in the breaking. And because you’re desperate, and you’ve tried most everything else, you empty my bag across the floor, spilling them like splinters, and you rifle through each one, and somewhere in that furious discovery you find the one piece you’ve been missing. One piece out of a million. Or ten trillion. And when you insert that piece into the puzzle that had become you, it stops the hemorrhage, and for the first time in maybe your whole life, the wound starts to heal. And, when it does, you hand me your bag because I’m still bleeding.
“The book would be something like that.”
“Can you read some of it to us?”
Katie nodded so I opened the book and read the first few lines.
“ ‘She knelt. Genuflected. He sat alongside the kneeler. Hands in his lap. She pushed the curtain open, to smell the Vitalis and Old Spice. She liked being this close to a man who did not feel compelled to touch her. To conquer her. She looked past him. Beyond the present. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…” ’ ”
AFTERWORD: DOC SNAKEOIL
In 2000, I was hired to write a book. The assignment was to pen a biographical story about a fleet of hospital ships called Mercy Ships and the remarkable people that live and work on them. The process paired me with an early-sixties, salt-encrusted Kiwi named John Dyson who had traveled the world extensively as a writer for Reader’s Digest—writing some two hundred stories over the span of his career. My assignment was to write the story; his was to look over my shoulder. Make sure I was on the right track. He was the mentor. I, the mentee.
So I flew to London, we met, had a delightful time. How do the Brits say it? Lovely. Just lovely. I learned he’d been a writer for a few decades, and had probably forgotten more about the craft and process of writing than I’d know in two lifetimes. For two days we met and he helped me outline the book I was to write. No real flags here. Just two writers talking. I liked him. Liked him, a lot. With the two of us “on the same page,” I flew home and got to work.
Over the next four months, I spent a lot of time on planes. Africa. Central America. The UK. Several states. My research complete, I sat down and penned what I thought was a pretty good story. Eighty-plus-thousand words. When finished, I sat back and nodded. It was good. Even very good. Proud of myself, I let my mind wander and in my naive admiration I made a pretty good argument for how this story would soon climb the nonfiction side of the New York Times list, allowing me a platform for my soon-to-be-discovered fiction. This was my ticket. I was on my way. So I clicked Send and awaited John’s positive praise.
It might be best at this point to simply let you read snippets of his response. An unadulterated view. To do this, I dug back through my inbox and unearthed a few of his editorial notes. They speak for themselves, so I’ll let them.
Note: these are his words. Exactly. I’ve not altered a letter. Not one period. And yes, they still hurt and there’s a reason why so many writers drink heavily.
This is a disaster.
Another ho-hum reversal of priorities at the bottom of the next page. Oh dear, what a bored writer!
Why the hell not?
The heart of the matter is the line-by-line quality of writing. You make strings of mistakes that do not appear in your notes, as I have pointed out often enough. It’s not a question of voice but of accuracy and lack of snap. These problems are particularly frequent in the history section. I think you have found it difficult to stand back from the material and write with a sure and independent touch because you are polluted by it. This might be wholly understandable but it is also wearisome.
There’s an awful lot of boring stuff in the history…
When it comes down to nitty gritty, I’m afraid you’re not.
At the moment, in my opinion, it is confusing in many places, grossly overwritten in some places, and in other places underwritten.
I’m not proud of my initial internal reaction. I think it sounded something like, Who does this clown think he is and who is he to tell me any of this about my writing? I scratched my head. I’m positive that when we met in London I made it clear—maybe on more than one occasion—that I did have a BA in English, a Master’s in journalism, and a PhD in communications. That should have sufficed.
More emails followed:
You’re throwing thi
s away. Very bland.
Rather a lot of awkward phrases and repetitions, many more than I have marked.
Bad start, as discussed.
This list goes on far too long. MEGO (my eyes glaze over).
Overwritten, too much introspection. Snap it.
If you can’t do the cutting yourself you need to find a good friend to go through it with a ruthless blue pen.
Tell the story in a simple and elegant way and don’t strive for effect. There’s just one rule and you can say it in three words: story, story, story.
’Fraid this doesn’t work. Overstated. Three/four lines enough.
You have 27 sentences in this chapter starting with the word As and ten starting with Following. This is a passive way to present the story. In nearly every case these words are simply unnecessary.
I read the first ten pages or so in a state of ascending rage and disappointment because frankly it’s a boring, tortuous, and badly written bag of bones.
Well, there are real problems with this chapter. It’s too long. It hits all over the place, like carpet bombing. A lot of passages are not very well written, especially toward the end.
Bad sentence in every respect.
I’m missing emotion—
Let me say this powerfully. Do not overwrite. Overwriting is the last refuge of the writer who has nothing to say. Let the stories speak for themselves.
Wipe it off your disc.
I sunk lower in my chair. Who is this guy!? I felt undressed. Wounded. Laid bare. Downright mad. Somewhere in my office while throwing one of my tantrums, I might have given him the finger—several dozen times. And maybe said a few unkind words about his entire bloody lineage.
You might ask how and why I continued. Trust me, I did, too. First, I had signed a contract. But let’s be real honest. Given the verbal hazing I was enduring, they could shove their contract. So, on to number two, which is much more honest—I desperately needed the money. What else was I going to do? I didn’t have a backup. No plan B. But it’s the third reason that might be the most important. Despite my sheepskin pedigrees, I had this sickly feeling that everything he said was right. No, I didn’t like how he said it. Didn’t like it at all. But once I separated the “how” from the “what,” I began questioning, “Was he right?”
Something in me said yes. And although I told that voice to shut up on more than one occasion, it never did. Thus the lashing continued. So every morning I pulled myself off the floor and continued rewriting. And rewriting. And rewriting. In evidence of this, I rewrote the first chapter eighteen times. Yep. Eighteen. Baptism by fire.
About two months in, I made a snide comment over the phone. My bottom lip was sticking out far enough to trip over and I was swimming in self-pity. I said, “Well, hello John… it’s just me and my warts.”
He responded with curtness, “You know the old cure for warts?” I didn’t respond. I was too tired for jousting. “Snake oil!” From then on, he signed his letters Doc Snake Oil.
I was ready to shoot him.
After three months, I’d reached my end. I could fall no lower. I called him on the phone. My pride was gone. Self worth all but erased. My I-couldn’t-care-less meter was pegged. I felt he had no clue about his total deconstruction of me and there wasn’t much reason for small talk so I didn’t. I said, “John, is anything I’ve written in the last three months any good?” My voice rose. “Any good at all?”
The pause told me my question had surprised him. Set him back. After a second he said, “Charles, bloody hell! We’re not aiming for ‘good.’ ”
That’s when it hit me.
“Good” wasn’t the goal. “Good” was never the goal.
Somewhere in the next week or two, his notes contained this phrase. “Getting there!” I think I screamed out loud.
Weeks later, this came through my email. “Love it!” Followed by, “Splendid stuff. I laughed out loud.” So help me, at this, I pushed back from the desk, popped the tab on a cold beer, and propped up my feet.
Then this…
You are an excellent writer. You deserve to make a living at it and you are right to pursue it. I enjoyed parts of the book immensely and was totally absorbed by them… Substantial bits of the book are masterful…
It took nine months, but we finished that book, both satisfied with a well-told story. Despite the sweat, and the pain, and our best efforts to the contrary, it was never published. A tough pill to swallow, but that’s fodder for another memory. Another day.
The point is not whether it was published. The point is what he and that process did in me. Until then I had written, but working with John, I became a writer.
Big difference.
Over the years, our correspondence morphed from teacher-student to the warm conversations between two invested friends. And, somewhere in there, maybe when my fiction sold and crossed the ocean and landed on the London newspaper beneath his nose, he quit critiquing altogether and became one of my biggest fans. (You can read his review of Where the River Ends on Amazon.com’s UK website.) For reasons I do not understand, and to this day cannot make sense of, John Dyson had taken me from Good to Great. A beautiful transformation.
Just lovely.
We shared stories of our kids, wives, dogs, adventures, and pictures of all of the above. Much of his email he signed Doc. Even now as I read that, Doc, I don’t remember the bitter taste of snake oil. I remember my friend, John.
John Dyson died in May 2012. Cancer. I wept then. I’m crying now. In his last days, as he lay dying in hospice, his daughter told me she printed out a story I’d written and that despite the morphine, he read it. I like the thought of that. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to hug his neck. To say all this.
I’m thirteen years into a writing career and you are holding my ninth book. If there’s merit to my craft, John Dyson had a lot to do with it. He was quite possibly the finest writer I’ve ever known. And a dear friend. John once told me that my books had “impacted” him. Even greatly. That may be so, but if you look inside me, down where people touch me, you’ll see his fingerprints. St. Bernard was right—we’re all just dwarves perched atop the shoulders of giants. And I miss mine very much.
In one of his last emails to me, he penned these words. They were fitting then. They’re fitting now. We were talking about the process of writing. We were talking about life.
White pages are not bad news. They’re just part of the process. What’s a sea voyage without long weary days spent crossing the blank bits of the map? It’s how you get to the other side.
Reading Group Guide
Discussion Questions
1. Why do you think the title of the book is Unwritten? In what ways is that theme conveyed in the book?
2. Shortly after meeting Peter, Katie confesses to Steady, “I don’t like the way I treat people.” Why do you think she behaves the way she does? Is her behavior justified?
3. Why would Steady believe that Peter and Katie are more capable of helping each other than he is of helping either of them?
4. Do you think Peter did the right thing in helping Katie through door number three?
5. Were Katie’s fans truly mourning her after her death? Is the act of mourning about the person lost, or the person who is mourning?
6. In what ways are Peter and Katie similar? How does it impact their relationship?
7. Why do you think Katie had so many disguises? Were they a help to her or a hindrance?
8. In what ways is Katie influenced by the opinion of society throughout her life? How has it shaped who she is?
9. Peter stops writing after he loses Jody, even though there are many children who love his stories. Why is that? Was it really about Jody?
10. Discuss the theme of forgiveness in the novel.
11. In what ways does Katie help Peter?
12. What do you think would have happened to Katie and Peter if Steady had not pushed them together? Could they have healed on their own?
An Interview w
ith the Author
Are any of the characters in Unwritten inspired by real people?
No one single character in any of my stories is a representation of anyone that I know or have met, but most of my characters pull pieces from several people I either know, have met, have read about, or can dream up. I don’t mean to make light of the process, but one of my favorite scenes in the movie Toy Story 2 is when Mrs. Potato Head is getting Mr. Potato Head ready for his big journey—stuffing car keys, a golf ball, cheese puffs, and his “angry eyes” in his back. Every time I watch that scene I think to myself, “That’s a lot like building a character.” You think I’m kidding…
In what ways do you identify with Peter? How are you different?
One of the ideas behind this story, that forced it to the surface in me, is this idea of gifting, or calling. The idea that it’s wrapped around our DNA, in each of us, and that no matter what, we can’t shake it. Peter is gifted. Far more than I am. But something hurts him. Something dings him. And, in pain, he takes his gift and runs. Why? Because the expression of it has become too painful. Ask any honest, seasoned artist, and he or she will tell you that they’ve struggled with this at some point.
Not every reader, viewer, or consumer is going to “get” your art. Some will castigate, throw stones, spray paint on your water tower, and make statements about your heart when they have little to no idea what’s actually in it. They will accuse you of ideas, thoughts, and intentions that are not yours, never have been, and never will be. But nonetheless, they say them. And that old adage about sticks and stones is a lie. Words hurt. A lot. Because we’re artists, and because we drink life through a fire hose, and because we offer our heart to others—our bag of broken pieces—we cannot help but be impacted by this. It’s in our nature, our gifting, to feel. It’s how and why we do what we do. It allows us—it allows me—to write what I do. And yes, sometimes it hurts… a lot. Peter is not me, but I can empathize with his life. With his response. Is it the right one? I haven’t said that. I’ve just said I understand it. No matter how far Peter runs or how completely he isolates himself, he cannot kill or outrun his gift. It’s Peter Pan’s shadow. Never far behind.
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