Does it feel ordinary?

(When my wife and I first drove to the area — about twen­ty-five years ago — we observed an ancient, col­lapsed log cab­in a mile off the road. Prob­a­bly a prospector’s cab­in. Over it hung a triple rainbow—surely a good omen. These days, as we dri­ve by, we nev­er fail to note it.)

At some point, I began to think of the basic ques­tion which evolved into this book: What was it like for a kid to grow up in one of those iso­lat­ed 19th-cen­tu­ry min­ing com­mu­ni­ties? 

Then I search for mem­oirs, his­to­ries — a lot of read­ing — and even talk to local folks who know the his­to­ry of the area, since Col­orado is full of such ghost towns. 

When I final­ly begin writ­ing, I have only a gen­er­al sense of what the sto­ry is, but I let my intu­ition guide me. As I end­less­ly rewrite, the sto­ry takes shape. Same for the char­ac­ters. When it becomes whole — usu­al­ly a year’s work — I read it to my wife and then find a class to whom I read it aloud.

More changes.

At one point, I shared the book with a good friend — the late, great writer, Will Hobbs. He knew old Col­orado much bet­ter than I did, read the man­u­script, and set me right in a cou­ple of ways.

Then the book went to my agent, who placed it with an editor. 

That accep­tance by an edi­tor was a huge step forward.

In this case, since it was a new edi­tor, we had a meet­ing in which we talked at length about the book, its strength, its weak­ness­es, and the kind of changes, expan­sion and con­trac­tions that hap­pen with every book. It helps to have a smart, artic­u­late editor.

More rewrit­ing, more con­ver­sa­tions with the edi­tor, more back and forth as the book took its final shape. Even the orig­i­nal work­ing title, Chas­ing Rocks, went through a few changes until it became The Road from Nowhere.

Cov­er art was dis­cussed, and I offered (I don’t always) a gen­er­al idea. I saw a sketch of the cov­er, and in this case, sug­gest­ed that one of the boys depict­ed turn to look in a dif­fer­ent direc­tion, for greater focus. That idea was agreed upon, and I got to see the final art. What I didn’t see was the let­ter­ing on the cover.

Now I think of a book — any book — as an art object, which can be very beau­ti­ful or ugly. Or some­thing between. I’ve had them all.

I share all this because when I final­ly saw the actu­al print­ed, bound book, I was fas­ci­nat­ed by its feel, its heft, its look. Sure, as the cliché has it, you can’t know a book by its cov­er. But a good cov­er brings read­ers to a book. A print­ed book — even in this com­put­er age — does not look like the man­u­script on my computer.

It’s dif­fer­ent. It’s new.

What font did the pub­lish­er choose to print the text? What is the lay­out, the design of the page? What is the qual­i­ty of the paper? Bright? Dull? Was it well-bound? Pages glued togeth­er or stitched? If the book has illus­tra­tions, how do they look? Where and how are they placed? What impact do they add to the text?

All of these things I am see­ing for the first time and are of great interest.

I do not sit down and read the book. I’m afraid I’ll find glitch­es or places I could have improved. Any­way, it’s too late.

(But once, when a new book came to me, I dis­cov­ered that ten pages had been left out!)

Final­ly, I have a rit­u­al. I sign my name on the title page, note the date on which it was received, and place it (chrono­log­i­cal­ly) with my oth­er books.

So, is it kind of ordi­nary to have a new book published?

Any­thing but.

Except — I usu­al­ly have one final thought: How did I ever man­age to write it?

Because, you see, I am already work­ing on some­thing new, and it is rather a struggle. 

Will it ever be done? Will it ever be published?

The truth is, in all of this, I’m nev­er certain.