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As you might already know, I’m working (reading, researching, personalizing letters, etc.) to find a literary agent for my first novel (which you can learn about here). A few nights ago I jolted awake, electrified by the shock that my book is absurdly long for any agent to consider. When I initially embarked on writing it, I was intent on finding an agent, so I corralled it to a standard length. When I decided I would eventually self-publish instead, word counts no longer mattered. Now that I’m giving the agent search another chance, it matters a lot. The standard wisdom is that instead of my tome’s hulking 170,00 words (in my defense, I’d planned to serialize it and still might, if I don’t find an agent), debut authors of literary fiction have better chances if they keep to 95,000-ish words.
That night, I got 3 hours of sleep. Maybe less. The first couple of bolt-upright hours, my chest thudded. Finally settled enough to channel pro-active mode, I googled shortcuts for how to slash one’s novel without spending years on it. Math-phobic as I am, turns out the method that resonates best for me involves adding and dividing words and pages and yada yada to figure how many words per page need excising. So far it’s not nearly as hard as I freaked it would be. The book is even better for it! Wish me luck…
Today’s guest, Wes Spindler, is a new blogger who’s off to his own great writing start. His autobiographical posts are thoughtful and sad, relatable and funny, always lyrical and brave. He also published a childrens book, which you can find out about on his Medium ‘about’ page. He lives in Washington State and describes himself as a Navy baby who’s ridden motorcycles across the West, and lived more places than I have, which is a lot. However, his travel lust is on hold, as is his income, due to current health issues. I wish him all the healthiest best with all his endeavors…
I Brought the Cops to My Dad’s House of Marijuana (It was a bad idea) by Wes Spindler
I was a 7-year-old shithead who got good grades but fought almost every day at school with a native kid. He would taunt me everywhere, I remember him turning at me in class and making faces.
I was sitting toward the back of the class and he was at the front, he would turn around and taunt me. I got up out of my seat and threw him out of his to the floor.
These are the things that would bring my dad’s belt to my ass on a regular basis. The day I brought the cops to the house was a different day entirely. I remember walking back home from the Boys and Girls Club with a friend.
The Boys and Girls Club was such a handy thing for parents who needed to work. Great for my parents, they just didn’t want to deal with me.
I lived across the street from a high school in Lewiston, Idaho, It was pretty calm since school was out. The Boys and Girls Club was like a 20-minute walk at most but I had to walk through the high school parking lots to get there the fastest.
On our way back, there was a cop car parked in one of the lots. We just happened to notice this black-and-white beauty. I was a shithead.
I whipped out my 7-year-old pecker and started to bless this car with my golden love. The two police officers who drove that beautiful piece of machinery just happened to be standing not so far away.
Yeah, they saw me dropping hot lemonade on their waxed trouble chaser, so they yelled at me and came running. My friend took off one way and I took off running home like a real genius.
The two bounty hunters chased me home, it wasn’t but a few minutes at that point, and they of course came knocking right after I got in the house. I’m sure they could smell the weed as soon as my dad opened the door.
I was used to it since I lived it, I had been passing the bong around the house since I was 3. My dad had two end tables, one on each end of the couch and they were filled with weighed-out baggies.
He was a regular in the community for your cooking herbs, I remember a cracked mirror in the bedroom with baby powder on it as well. He even had plants growing in the basement so if all the chefs in the neighborhood ran out then there was backup being harvested.
The two rookies who came knocking apparently didn’t know what pot smelled like because there was NO WAY you couldn’t smell it. What happened to me later confirmed that my dad couldn’t have known them either.
Shit, now that I think about it — maybe my dad hooked them up because they left without doing anything. Either that or they just felt sorry for me growing up in that environment.
My dad was off the hook but I wasn’t, Later that evening he decided that I was going to get something better than the belt or wall ornaments. He was going to teach me to bring the cops to the house of debauchery.
I would love to tell you that I stayed in my room for the rest of the night, but that’s not what happened.
My dad pulled out a 2×4 and told me to bend over and touch my ankles. Usually, I was bending over the bed and getting the belt.
My dad tore into me with some kind of fury, I don’t know if there was a crack in this thing or not but it broke. My ass went numb and I was in enough tears that I couldn’t see anything.
I couldn’t tell you how many swings it took to break it but I am sure he was proud of himself, I hobbled off to my bedroom. My legs were shaky, I couldn’t see and I knew I fucked up good.
I did end up in my room for the rest of the night, I was crying in bed all night hoping that the feeling would come back.
Then again, if it didn’t — I wouldn’t feel the next ass-whooping that came my way.
What’s your quickest way to slash your writing by almost half?
Happiness Between Tails by da-AL 
[…] that I might be better off not slashing my 180,000 word novel down to the customary 95,000 words (I initially wrote about that here). My sweet husband was on the same wave length late last week, when I asked for his help with a […]
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