For me, writing is sort of like looking for the bathroom at night in a strange house when the lights are off. I've never actually had instruction in writing. Instead, I've tried to learn by feeling my way in the darkness, by reading "good" writing and by seeing what approaches in my own work elicit reactions, either positive or negative, from readers.
Yesterday I was thinking about what I should do next in life. Since it's the wrong time of year to sail across the Atlantic, my focus was on finding employment. I'm pretty sure I could get a job at Home Depot or pumping gas. But I kept coming back to writing as the thing I really want to do.
This led me to consider beginning a new writing project. There are many, many stories I'd like to tell. And yet, it occurred to me that perhaps it is time I figured out how to turn on the hallway light so I wouldn't spend too much time stumbling into the furniture.
This thought steered me back toward the things I've already written that have not yet found a publisher. Wouldn't it be great if I could have a writing coach examine the work and tutor me?
Well, you are the designated coach, if you want the job.
From today on, I'm posting a chapter a day from the two books, one book at a time, until for each book I've posted about half the book. I'd like to ask you to read the chapters and then tell me in detail or in general what works and what does not. Is there something that causes you to read on? Where are the points when your eyes cross and you can't go on?
The first offering will be from the youth novel I call Leaving Harwich. I'll put my email address at the end of each chapter so you could, if you wish, respond directly. If you agree, I will then post your responses in the blog.
This coaching is serious business. I won't learn anything from flattery. Please keep such comments to yourself. It is sufficiently difficult to be a critical reader of one's own work. What will really help is thoughtful criticism from you. Thanks to any and all who might pitch in.
And now, Chapter 1 . . .



Pocketknife




I got out here, standing on the shoulder of a Vermont highway right before dark, just about the same way I get out of bed in the morning. Starting my day doesn’t involve a decision, and neither did this. You lie there, flipping from side to side, trying to preserve the pleasure of your bed’s comfort against the demands of your bladder. You turn this way and the other between the cool sheets like you would turn the dial of a combination padlock left and right, then suddenly the tumblers fall in place and, click – the lock opens. You are rising. One moment, you’re down. Then you’re getting up.
That’s how this escape came about. One minute, I was locked into my life as a ninth grader at Harwich Academy. The next, I’m standing on the side of this road with my thumb cocked at ninety degrees to my fist, indicating I want a ride, any ride. I didn’t really decide to do this. But it had to happen as certain as sap runs up the trunk of a tree in spring. And now that it has, I know I’ll probably never go back.
It doesn’t hurt that this is a perfect October Saturday night. It was sunny all day with only a few clouds. Where I’m standing now, on Route 7 in the commercial spread south of Burlington, is high ground. I can see the Adirondack Mountains to the west on the far side of Lake Champlain. The sun has just set behind the mountains – they are purple silhouettes now – and the few clouds above them are glowing some shade between orange and pink. It will be dark in a half hour, but I should have a ride by then.
Route 7 runs north and south along the lake at the western edge of Vermont. The next big town south of here is Rutland, and when I get there, I’ll have to make a decision. Keep going south and the next stop will be New York City. Turn left and I’ll go to Boston. I’ve been to Boston lots of times but I’ve only been to New York once, on a family trip. That was one of the few times my parents were able to leave the farm overnight. Keeping a herd of dairy cows is a full-time job and if you do it well, you don’t want to leave the livestock with anyone else. My dad is one of the top dairy farmers in Vermont and he and Mom almost never travel.
You might think that because I’m standing on a roadside begging for a ride out of town that I’m not like them. You’d be wrong. I’m not looking to travel. But I am definitely looking to make a change. Mom and Dad think Harwich is the best thing that has happened in my life. They never really insisted that I go away to a boarding school. But I knew how much it meant to them, so I agreed to enroll. It wasn’t what I wanted to do with my life. I want to be a dairy farmer like Dad. But they work so hard and there isn’t much they ask of me. So two years ago, I moved into a Harwich dorm room.
Now, I’m moving out. I didn’t tell anyone what I was doing. I got a ride to Burlington from Harwich this morning. In my backpack, I have some cash, a couple of changes of underwear and socks, another pair of trousers and a shirt and a fleece jacket that I can put on when it gets colder tonight. And I have a book I’ve been reading, about a boy named Philip who is younger than I am but who seems to find himself in a situation peculiarly similar to mine.
I have a jackknife in my pocket, just in case. It’s something Will Crawford suggested on the ride to Burlington. He said you never know what or who you’ll run into hitchhiking. I just told him I was going to be thumbing my way back to Harwich later in the day, but he didn’t like that idea. He told me to look in the glove box of his ten-year-old Subaru.
“There, that’s it with the yellow lanyard,” he said. “Just keep it tonight and return it to me tomorrow.”
So I took the knife and put it in my hip pocket. I suspect it could be more dangerous to be armed with a weapon someone else could use against you. But it made Will feel better.
Where I am now is a good place to get a ride. I’m outside a chain restaurant. People will be coming and going from the parking lot, and when they leave, they will be stopping before turning onto the highway. There is an island with shrubbery across the front of the parking lot. Cars enter the lot on the far side of the shrubbery from where I’m standing. They leave in the opening that is near me, and they have to slow or stop to watch for the oncoming traffic. That gives them time to see me and check me out.
I don’t look too dangerous, but I think I look older than I am. I’m a little taller than most of my Harwich classmates and my dad says all those years working on the farm has given me the build of a man. My beard has started coming in, too, and I didn’t bother to shave this morning.
I don’t think most people would give a ride to a kid. There’s too much trouble they could get into. At least that’s what my Uncle Steve told me. I used to hitchhike back to the farm when I’d stay late at school for basketball practice. Uncle Steve never liked me doing that. But of course he’s old and he was never one to take a risk, Mom says. He lives in a home he and Aunt Mildred built down the hill on a piece of the farm property closer to town. He almost never leaves the house now that she has died. He fixes computers in the living room – there are computers all over the place, on tables and shelves – and the room is as quiet as the library basement, quiet and dark and Uncle Steve is quiet and nothing around him moves any faster than he does, as if the whole place is afraid sudden movement will stir up trouble.
Anyway, I don’t think I look too much like a kid, so I expect that getting a ride will be no problem. And my voice started changing a long time ago and it almost never cracks now, so if I talk softly I think anyone would be surprised to learn that I’m in the ninth grade.
But you never know. One thing I don’t want to do is have to tell a cop who I am. Hitchhiking is illegal. If a cop sees you and guesses you’re a juvenile, you’ll probably be taken to the station and asked questions. And right now, about a half a mile north on the road, there is a police car making a U-turn. He’ll be headed back this way in a minute, so I’ll have to duck behind the shrubbery before he sees me. There are a dozen cars between the cruiser and me. I’ll keep my thumb out a bit more just in case one of them is heading my way.
There are street lights here, and they are reflected blue-white on the sloping windshields of the cars as they approach. Everyone has their headlights on and between the glare of the lights and the street light reflections that sweep up the windshields in ice-colored waves, you can’t see into the cars so you can’t see the faces of the drivers. I try to look directly into the windshield of each car on the driver’s side, just in case they are looking at me. One thing I’ve learned at Harwich is you should look strangers in the eye. They don’t teach this, but it became obvious the first few weeks I was there, when I knew no one, that looking people in the eye made them take notice of you.
And it is working now. The second car up – a silver Porsche Carrera – just pulled onto the shoulder and is coming to a stop beside me. The window on my side is rolling down smooth as melting ice.
The man is middle aged and has his blond hair pulled back tight in a pony tail. He is wearing a dark green sweater over a blue shirt with a button-down collar.
“Where you headed?” he asks.
“Rutland,” I answer.
“Good. I could use some company on the ride down. Hop in.”
I swing my pack off my shoulder and, feeling first for the jackknife in my pocket, reach for the door handle.
“Thanks.”


mondoug@verizon.net