From Start To Finish

 From Start To Finish—George Davis

  It has taken me six months, and I’m still working on it, to compose the story you are about to read. It started in June of this year prompted by a friend of mine who wagered $100 if I could write a novel in ten-months. 

  Well, here I am up to chapter 6 and feeling as if I’d been run over by an eighteen-wheeler with a full load on his truck. 

  Writing doesn’t come easy to me. I flunked Freshman English and had to take it over again my Sophomore year. I couldn’t understand dangling participles and modifiers then, and I still can’t wrap all these sentence structures around my feeble brain. 

  Last night, or should I say, this morning at 2 pm I was still working on the same paragraph I started with at eight this morning. Of course, I had a few breaks in between; like the two-hours worth of down-time for lunch and a nap. 

  Rodney Small, my best friend since first-grade challenged me to write a novel in ten months. At first, I told him, I couldn't do it. He said, “You are the world’s biggest ‘I can’t’ person I know. You’ll probably tell the undertaker you need a little more time.” 

  “Listen Rod, How much are you willing to put up for this venture?” 

  “One-hundred big ones. I thought I told you that already." 

  “You probably did. I’ve been busy trying to figure out why you are doing this? It can’t be for the money alone. What’s your reason for it, to torture me, or to see how long it will take me to break?” 

  “Nothing like that. I just think it will be something you can tell your grandchildren; a legacy if you will.” 

  “Come on, Rod, we’ve been friends too long. Tell me the truth.” 

  “Okay, Janie put me up to it.” Janie is my girlfriend and most likely my wife at some point in time. 

  The Herculean task before me, under normal circumstances, would be my undoing. However, since there is a monetary prize. I shall succeed if it is the last thing I do. 

  Rod has called me every day since I began this mammoth task. I don’t know if he’s afraid I’ll finish my novel in the appointed time. Or rather he’s afraid he’ll lose the C note. Whichever rationale he’s worried about, he can kiss that hundred bucks good-bye. 

  November 29th and I'm still pounding the keys. I am up to page 101 with no idea where this is going. I didn’t realize writing was so arduous a task. I thought it would only take me a couple of months to write a novel. Was I disillusioned, or what? I don’t have great grammar skills. As I told you, I flunked Freshman English. Nonetheless, I intend to finish this book by April 1, April fools Day. 

  Funny how you remember little snippets you learn along life’s path. As I was an inept English student, I relied on my aunt for help. She was an English teacher in our school system. 

  “Now nephew, you asked me when to use will and shall. Let me give you a little saying to help you. ‘I shall. We shall. They shall. All others will.’” This saying has been a great help in composing what you will read when I finish.   

  One more thing my aunt taught me. It has nothing to do with English, but I have never forgotten this little rhyme: ‘Backward turn backward, O time in your flight and make me a child again just for tonight.’ It did give me a love for poetry.

  “No Rod, I am not finished. I have written exactly two pages since you called yesterday. If you keep calling me, I’ll never get it finished.”

  “Just want to make sure you’re on your toes.”

  “I’m on a part of my body three feet above my toes.”

  Friday night, and time to call it quits. I’ve been writing since nine this morning, give or take an hour or two.

  Thank the Lord, Rod hasn’t called for two days. And in this hiatus from his majesty, I have been able to produce ten pages. 

  Today is Saturday, my time to work outdoors in the fresh air. I have never appreciated mowing the lawn and weeding my wife’s flower garden more until I started this novel. I could get used to this routine. 

  The bright morning sun falling on my little three-quarters of an acre was energizing, and I mowed the lawn with gusto. The fresh, new-mown grass, the pleasant temps made me realize I need to get out more. 

  I’ve been staring at the four walls since I experienced my heart attack a month ago. I have counted every hole in the ceiling tile in my living room. I lost count at 1,500. 

  My two brown leather recliners, a mahogany coffee table, a maroon settee with maple arms have been rearranged at least four times in my absence from work. At first, I enjoyed being home away from those facts and figures. However, now I miss work. I wish I could go back tomorrow. 

  Rod called. He hasn’t called in three days. “How are you coming on your book, pal?”

  “I’m getting there.”

  “You have ten more days to finish your story.”

  “I know it. I’ll be finished by that time.” I felt nauseated because I had another fifty pages to go.

  “Well, I won’t bother you again if you feel you can do this.” Great, your calling me so often has set me back at least two days. 

  I went back to the keyboard with my fourth cup of coffee. Nothing was coming; I stared at the blank screen and shuttered. I’m not sure I can finish my novel in ten days, and I don’t have a hundred dollars to spare right now, living on disability pay. 

  One day to go. I am surprised. I have written two-hundred-thirty pages to date. I must write another twenty pages to qualify my book as a novel. 

  Let me tell you, I have the writer's block. Any person that says writing a book is easy is nuts. It is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. 

  I can say this, the first two-hundred-thirty pages were a breeze compared to the last twenty. 

Well, here we are. Book finished (but not edited) on time. 

  “Listen pal, I’m proud of you. However, in order to collect the $100, I must read your story.”

  “Come on over, it’s right here on my coffee table.”

  I went back into the living room and sat in my recliner; proud of myself for my accomplishment.

  I must have fallen asleep because the doorbell woke me from my reverie.

  “Hello, I’m here to read your story,” Rod said. He came in and picked up the paper copy I took off my word processor. “Not bad; not professional, but pretty good for an amateur writer.”

  “Well,” I said, “Where’s my money?” I held out my hand. He placed a brand-new one-hundred-dollar bill in my palm. 

  He said, “Congratulations. Now what?”

  I go back to work Monday; I won’t have time to write another story. This is my debut into the writer’s circle and my farewell.

  I will finish this story with a quote from George R.R. Martin “Some writers enjoy writing, I am told. Not me. I enjoy having written.”