"You won't get wise with the sleep still in your eyes..."

When I first set out to write The Prankster's Reward, I had a target of 120,000 words.

One of my main gripes about fantasy fiction is that it tends to take a writer 10 years and three or four 1,000 page books to tell a story and I didn't want to do that--not yet, anyway. I wanted to write a relatively compact adventure tale that would leave readers craving more but wouldn't take such a huge investment of time to get to the end.

More than eight months later, the novel is done. It comes in at about 85,000 words, which means my initial word count was fairly accurate. It will take a lot of work to make it even readable enough to get someone else's opinion on it. Most of that work will be in adding depth to the characters and providing the backstory to the things I revealed in the final chapter and epilogue.

I've learned quite a few things along the way, particularly in the last month, when I declared my own personal 'writing Waterloo' and told myself that if I didn't get any consistency in my writing, do it with any discipline at all, then I was just going to quit and admit that life had won. The goal was impossible. Save yourself the frustration and spend more time with the family. Perhaps you can take something away from my struggles.

First, I am too hard on myself. Looking back, it's amazing that I was able to finish it at all, giving everything that was going on in my life. A battle with blood sugar, documented here. The impending foreclosure (or, hopefully, short sale) of my house, which I've written about here under the tag 'the third miracle.' The care and recent passing of my father to early onset Alzheimer's. It is okay to let things like this eat into your time, but it is not okay to let them defeat. All things pass and, as Winston Churchill once said: If you're going through hell, keep going.

Second, I allowed my own story to drag on to the point where even I got bored with it. If you're not invested in something you're writing, how can the reader be? Henry David Thoreau, a guy who knew a thing or two about writing, advises us to 'strike while the iron is hot.' A writer who tries to tell his story after the passion has faded is like trying to iron a shirt with a cold brick. Or something to that effect.

As romantic and cool as it may sound to say you can write something as you go along, the reality is that it's a lot more practical to plan things out ahead of time. That way, a plot point that you suddenly think about in chapter 21 doesn't require writing chapters 3-17. When I go back to edit this novel--and by edit, I mean rewrite--I'll do it the right way. I'll have a full outline. Character sketches. Back stories. I will set up a desk in my garage, beyond the reach of my wifi, and close the door to all distractions.

And go back I will. Write I will. For at the end of myWaterloo, I had an 18-12 record for days writing vs. days non-writing, and I know can improve on that. It doesn't matter what's going on in your life. Your dreams are still out there, waiting patiently.

Grace and a grain of salt

My mom has often asked me where my creativity comes from. I never really thought about it; I’m just happy the stories come to me, regardless of the effort it takes to put them into words.

But it’s a good question. She can follow a pattern better than anyone. She can make a pant suit out of a discarded piece of fabric, knit you an afghan, build you a stuffed bear (complete with articulated joints), embroider a wall-hanging—and you should see some of the Halloween costumes. But creating completely new things isn’t really her thing.

Dad was a math guy; he worked with computers. Equations were his building blocks.

It wasn’t until the last few months that I really started to think about that question but when I did, the answer was pretty obvious:

I learned how to be creative by listening to my dad swear.

Now, he wasn’t given to much profanity. He wasn’t the kind of person to drop an ‘f’bomb the way some people say ‘Hi,’ or anything like that. He didn’t swear often, but when he did…

He put swear words together like a toddler building a toy train, cramming one word after another with reckless, free flowing abandon. He didn’t care if the words belonged together or not—he just wanted them to roll.

I’d give you examples, but we are in a house of worship—and guests, at that. Suffice it to say that the last thing my brothers, sister or I ever wanted to hear when we were growing up was a plaintive voice calling from the garage or the basement: “Can I get some help, please?”

Because dad, for all his gifts with the more…florid…forms of speech, was equally as gifted at making a simple job become more complicated—and therefore frustrating—than it needed to be.

But dad was basically a quiet guy. Humble. And, in his own way, passionate. He had a great sense of humor, albeit a slightly unusual one. Even that, he kept mostly to himself, laughing when appropriate and sliding a zinger in when it was least expected. His usual expressions—which we’ll get to later—were as smile-inducing as they were confounding.

He was the hardest working person I’ve ever known. He would go to work all day, deal with us afterward, then do chores until he collapsed onto the couch. If he ever complained, I never heard it. That trait served me well in the news business, but even I couldn’t hold a candle to it.

And he was a fighter, too. When he had cancer, he had so little regard for that disease that he told us all about it during a card game.

“I’m glad you’re all here,” he said. “I have cancer. Let’s make that trump. It’s your lead.” We just gaped at him, the cards drifting out of our hands like petals from a wilting flower. He got radiation treatment on his lunch break and then went back to work.

Heart disease took his mother and older brother, but when dad had a heart attack, he barely even noticed. He eventually went to an ER—four days later—and, when we expressed our shock and outrage at hearing that, he just shrugged his shoulders and said:

“I just thought I was tired.”

But, Alzheimer’s…

Well. What can you say about Alzheimer’s? There’s no weight set that’ll help you. Alzheimer’s doesn’t care how much cardio exercise you do. It scoffs at a proper diet the way…well, the way most of us scoff at a proper diet. You can’t really fight it.

And Dad was a math guy. A computer guy. Equations were his building blocks. There must’ve been a moment when he realized that this was an algorithm that had too many variables to solve.

At least in time for him.

So he fought it the only way he could: for the next victim. He was part of a research program at the University of Michigan and we had his brain donated to the same department for study. Nobody could figure out why it hit him so hard and took him so fast while he was alive. Maybe now…

I guess you could call it the gift that keeps on giving, against the thing that keeps on taking. Maybe it’ll give some other son more time with his dad, some other wife more time with her husband, a few more poker games and campfires.

That’s one thing we can take from all of this. As for the deeper lesson, well, I had to think long and hard on that. Everything has a purpose. Everything happens for a reason, right? Well, possible reason could there be for this, to take someone who worked so hard, asked for so little, wanted nothing more than a better life for his children and who offended no one?

I don’t know. I asked that question a lot. If there was an answer to that, I didn’t hear it.

I am left with this:

Sometimes, in our quest for miracles, we overlook the little blessings. The smiles. Inside jokes. Pats on the head. Simple things we see and discard all the time.

My dad was never overly affectionate. I never heard him say ‘I love you.’ But he showed me every day, if I had been smart enough to notice.

That is what I’d like you to take from this, from my dad. Love, real love, real passion: it doesn’t have to be spoken to be valid. It’s evident in the little things that we don’t even notice. A guy who will make his own sandwich out of the crusts of the bread, and then tell you it’s his favorite part. Or someone who spends his last buck on a pop for you, and tells you he’s not thirsty.

Recognize that for what it is. Smile back. Say ‘thank you.’ Or even, ‘I love you, too.’ Because in the end, you don’t know how much time you have. I think my dad would like that, if he knew at the end we all got him.

What he wouldn’t like is us all crying over his loss. He’d be embarrassed over all this fuss (but he’d appreciate the sandwiches). He was a fighter, you know. Cancer. Heart Disease. Alzheimer’s. He was 2-for3.  And he got an assist in #3, right? Don’t be sad. Mourn his passing, and pass on his legacy. Remember your blessings. You are loved, even if you don’t hear it.

And, if you want to pass on his legacy, here are some simple ways you can do it. The beauty of it is, they don’t really require—or perhaps ‘defy’ is a better way to say it—explanation. His expressions:

When someone says: can I ask you a question:

“Shoot Bruce, the air is full of pigeons.”

To this day, I have no idea who ‘Bruce’ was, or what questions have to do with pigeons. We never met anyone named Bruce and, even if the sky was indeed filled with pigeons, dad wouldn’t be able to shoot one, anyway.

When you take a turn faster than you have to:

“Wheel that taxi, Ponch!”

When you’re waiting to turn into or against traffic:

“What is this, a parade?”

Or as a general exclamation:

“Nice going, Clyde.”

Clyde. That was another guy. We never knew who Clyde was. But ‘Clyde’ was the pinnacle of all insults for my dad. It superseded all commonly known swear words or pejoratives. We never met Clyde or anything, but he must’ve really rubbed dad the wrong way at some point.

And, if you’re doing something that just is not going like you planned, before you start stringing together swear words, try this gem:

“Well, that’s enough to piss off the pope.”

Well. There was more, but I don't remember the ending I tacked onto it, and I'm surprised that I even made it that far. Thanks again for those that came or passed along their thoughts. And thanks for reading here.

"Easy for you to say; your pride has never been stolen..."

As usual, Henry broke the silence.

"It's not fair," he said. Emotion clogged his voice.

"What's that, bud," I asked, even though I already knew.

"Other kids have a grandpa that comes over just to hang out," he said. "I don't even have that."

We were on our way home, back from the first visit to my dad's new home, an assisted living facility he was transferred to on Tuesday, following his most recent trip to the hospital. We knew he was heading that way, for a while—in his reluctant moods he was just too much for my mom to handle. He's been essentially wasting away for a while now, gripped by early-onset Alzheimer's that has progressed more rapidly than anyone could have predicted, yet he still possessed a wiry strength that made him almost impossible to move.

Still, knowing it was in the future was one thing. Sitting in the middle of it, looking around and letting it all sink in—no matter how much you might have tried to prepare yourself for it—is quite another.

I didn't really know what to expect and because of that I didn't want Henry to come with me the first time. I didn't want to give him nightmares or anything. But he was insistent and I eventually caved in. I think that was only in part because I felt a bit of sad pride that he would even want to go, knowing how unpleasant it might be, but I'm ashamed to say that it was mostly because I didn't want to face it alone.

We eventually found him back in the TV room named, as you might guess, for the TV that sat silent and dark against one wall. He was curled up on a couch, slightly hunched over, with his arms crossed and hands tucked tight up against his armpits. He was dressed and I was thankful for that. Bandages covered both his ankles. His feet were otherwise bare and looked like I imagined Frodo's would have halfway into his march through Mordor. The nails were thick, yellowish and split at the ends.

In three weeks, my dad will turn 67. He should be just starting to enjoy the retirement he and my mom had planned, perhaps even making good on their desire to sell the big house in Canton, buy a motor home and take a long look around the country. The other residents of the home were all old enough to be HIS father, and they regarded Henry and me with a sort of vacant curiosity.

My dad's eyes were closed, but he was awake.

"Who would've thought, eh?" I said to him, blinking rapidly and trying to keep my voice steady. The corners of his mouth dropped and his lips trembled. I had to look away.

Later, I again tried to keep my voice steady.

"Well, you have a great grandpa that you get to see on Saturday," I told Henry. "Not everybody has that."

"Grandpa wouldn't even shake my hand," Henry said, sniffling. "He doesn't want to be there. He wants to be home, with grandma."

"I know, buddy. We'd all like that, but this is the best thing for grandpa and for grandma..."

"I'm sorry," he interrupted me.

"Sorry for what?"

"I'm sorry for crying, because I made you cry."

I reached over and patted his leg. "It's okay, you don't have to apologize and there's nothing wrong with crying. When things are sad, you're supposed to cry. And this is very sad. We just have to try to make the best of it. The people there seemed nice; and it'll get easier."

And it will get easier. I know that. That's the final cruelty that this goddamn disease inflicts on you. But first it makes you miss the person even when you're sitting right next to him, trying to shake his hand or make him smile.

When drove the rest of the way home in silence, each lost in our thoughts. Henry might've been remembering playing catch with my dad in the backyard. Or the time he bit into a bar of soap because he thought it was a brownie.

Mine took a darker route, a haiku:

And there comes a time
when the boldest prayers fall short
and you're left wond'ring

"For you, the blind who once could see, the bell tolls for thee..."

“So, what do you want to write today?”

There was no answer, but I knew he was awake. He had been a few minutes ago and nobody fell asleep that fast—not when they were sitting up on a vinyl-covered chair in an open-backed hospital gown, that is. It takes a long time to overcome that kind of discomfort, to relax enough amidst the drafts and mild indignities to drift off to sleep.

But my dad just sat there, head turned slightly away from me, with his closed eyelids fluttering and his mouth set in a determined line.

“No ideas, either, huh?” I said. I looked back at the word document, blank except for the date at the top of the page. “I know what you mean. You know, I used to be good at this. I used to write for a living. Remember that?”

He probably did not. Or if he did, he probably could not tell me so. Or if he did try to tell me, I probably wouldn’t be able to understand him. Alzheimer’s affects everyone—victims and family members—differently. It robbed my dad of the ability to communicate the way he used to, which means we don’t know exactly what he’s going through; what, if anything he’s thinking and, worst of all, how to help.

“Are you thirsty?” I rattled a Styrofoam cup filled with water and ice. No response.

Hmm.

Well, it was his second visit to a hospital in the past month and he was actually doing better this time around. I’ll never forget that first trip; it will forever be ingrained in my nightmares, from the day I had to help pry him out of the car to the 15 (15!!!!) hours spent in a emergency room to the weeks afterward. He was once the strongest man I knew and here he was reduced to a state of utter dependency that even he didn’t understand. That kind of thing doesn’t fade easily.

He was much better this time. In fact the only thing keeping him there was his own stubbornness. All his vitals were as normal: fever gone, infection apparently chased away by the latest IV drip. All he had to do was open his eyes, eat on his own, respond to us.

But it would come as no surprise to anyone who knew him that he didn’t care for the hospital stay and he didn’t like being poked and prodded at regular intervals—and it pissed him off.

“We can probably get you out of here tomorrow,” I told him, “but you’ve got to listen. You’ve got to open your eyes. You’ve got to drink and eat. That’s one of the reasons you’re here…because you got dehydrated.”

He mumbled something; it might have been a word or two but it was so soft I couldn’t tell, so jumbled I couldn’t understand it.

“You want to watch some football? The game’s almost on.”

Nothing. He was still sitting, his turned away from me. Not for the first time, I wondered if this was it. Would we ever be able to get him to understand? Was this the beginning of the end? He was only 66; way too young to check out like this.

Then I closed my eyes—squeezed them shut, actually—and pressed my fingers against my temples until those thoughts passed.

“So. You’ve forgotten everything except how to be stubborn, huh? Well, I learned that lesson, too. I learned it from the best.” I sat down in the chair beside him and flipped open the laptop.

“So what do you want to write tonight?”