Hello, friends.
You know what’s screwed up? My youngest daughter is 14 years old. My baby. How the hell is that possible? She’s becoming an amazing young person. Her mind inspires. Her ability to do math, solve puzzles, read faster than me, be funny, and also be kind and caring toward others inspires me daily. She’s had a rough year and I hope things will get better soon, but through it all she’s still been her amazing self. Her rough year hasn’t been terrible, just rough. But she’ll get through and will be stronger and even more amazing when she’s on the other side of the rough.
Happy birthday, G!
Welcome to the 198th installment of Gauthic Times, the newsletter about my writing, my life, and musings about fun and writing. If you’re a reader who subscribes via Substack, my website, or Patreon, your encouragement helps motivate me. I’m thankful to have any audience.
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I worked on editing Four Moons last Sunday but haven’t had the ability to sit with it since. However, I had an idea about it the other night that got me excited.
As I’ve read and edited the book, I kept feeling like something was missing. It’s a good story, I think, and I like the characters, but it was very…I don’t know. Something. I couldn’t exactly place my finger on why I felt the way I did toward the book. Then the other night I think I got it. There was something staring at me the entire time, since I first began writing the damn book, that I missed. Now that I have it, I need to figure out how to incorporate it, but I think—if I can pull it off—it may be the secret ingredient. I hope I don’t fuck it up.
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I’ll be hunched over the manuscript of a novel or story with my blue pen in hand (I’ve grown quite fond of the Pentel EnerGel Needle Tip 0.5 pen) reading, editing, and making notes as a mild case of second-guessing comes to me.
Maybe those excellent writers who’ve said great things about my writing are wrong, I’ll think. This is easily a steaming pile of shit. Greg F. Gifune was wrong, I am a pretender! Things of that sort. Then I need to remind myself of something.
Have fun.
I didn’t start writing at 13 to become a literary lion. I mean, sure, I hoped I’d be as popular as Stephen King, but who doesn’t in the writing game? But even at 13 I knew that it wasn’t a goal that one could just achieve. Even being published seemed too much to ask for. I started writing because I loved telling stories. I loved playing. Writing was a way for me to do that where, if I did it well enough and worked hard enough (and had a little bit of luck with), I might have a chance to turn into a career of some sort.
It’s easy to get lost in the ocean Bookstagram and Booktok and the myriad other ways one finds out about books in the 21st century, but that’s all noise. Even doing signings and events is noise. The real reason to write? To have fun.
I’ve been thinking about lately because I have those occasional moments when the world seems bleak and managing writing with the full-time job/career and being a father/husband/brother/son/friend seems foolish. Why put myself through the stress?
Mainly because it’s fun. Telling stories/writing has been an integral part of my life from which I can’t—nor would I ever really want to—walk away. So when the writing or editing or publishing feels too much, when life is pulling me in different directions and reminding me that I’d be a better teacher/husband/father/brother/son/friend if I didn’t have this mistress to whom I must always return, I remind myself that the reason I do this is because I find it fun.
I get to make up characters and worlds. I get to put those characters through some pretty fucked-up shit in those worlds. I get to disappear in the story in the same way I did when I played as a kid and everything feels good when I do it. And then I get to play that story again in editing, and again in revising. Sure it’s difficult at times. Sure it often comes with self-doubt. But the overall feeling at the end, when I see those pages, when I hold that book, is one of pride and amazement. And fun. It’s a testament that during this dark time and that good time and the other bad time and that terrible time and that amazing time I could sit down and capture pieces of it or allow it to fuel the desire to tell the story.
So when I’m asked why I write, or if I have advice for someone who wants to write, it usually comes back to having fun. It may sound self-serving but I think that if I’m having fun writing something, a reader will have fun reading it, and that may allow me to have more fun.
And who couldn’t use more fun?
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That’s this week’s newsletter. Thank you so much for subscribing, reading, and for your support. Be safe out there, friends.
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