Page 23 of An Unfinished Story
“I stole a few things from friends and family,” Whitaker would say in interviews, “but it’s just my imagination hard at work.”
“How about the father in the story?” they’d asked. “I know your father was a vet too.”
“The father in the story is a completely unfair, diminished view of my dad. It’s who hecouldhave become after the war, but thankfully he returned intact.”For the most part,Whitaker would always add internally.
That father was a PTSD-riddled tiger of a man who was relentless in life and work. He was still fighting the Vietnam War every single day. Jack Grant, however, had dealt with his demons in a much more impressive way. Whitaker would always end his interviews with, “Jack Grant is my hero. The man in the book is an antihero. It’s just that ... knowing a vet so intimately as you would when you’re raised by one, it’s easy to let your imagination run with how much worse it could be. That’s where the palm trees are poisoned with napalm and the turquoise waters are dyed red with blood.”
Jack Grant was Whitaker’s hero in a lot of ways, but when it came down to it, no man in the history of business could remove a suit and tie like Whitaker Grant. The moment he closed his front door, his tie was flying in the air and his suit jacket was falling to the floor. He kicked his polished loafers toward the wall and shucked his ironed black pants into the corner. Letting the suit wrinkle and leaving the businessman in the foyer, Whitaker dressed in basketball shorts and a T-shirt and headed toward his office.
Entering his writing space always felt like he was jumping out of a helicopter into a Vietnamese jungle. Never did going to war get easier, and that was exactly what sitting down to fill a blank page was: war.
I Hear Thunder(the working title of his newest work, the one that began with “I want out, Matteo”) had led to many more words and sentences. LikeNapalm Trees, he’d begun to feel the character, starting to see through the eyes of this man.
The problem was Whitaker kept getting in the way of himself.Napalm Trees and Turquoise Watershad been a thrill to write. He could remember countless times when he was pounding the keys with his foot tapping and heart racing, and he could barely wait until he could share the story with the world. Where was the joy in this one?
The warrior typist sat in his chair, rebooted his computer, and stared at the movie poster until the final beep sounded. He couldn’t help but take a quick peek at Lisa and him at the premiere again. She was still his cheerleader, even after leaving him. That was, in fact, the last thing she said to him. “I’m pulling for you, Whitaker. I can’t love you anymore, but I’m your biggest fan.” No one could imagine how hard hitting her last words were.
Stalling, he checked his social media accounts. A fan had posted on his Facebook wall, telling Whitaker that he’d rewatched the movie again and absolutely loved it. The fan suggested writing a sequel.
Not for the first time, Whitaker bounced that notion around in his head. The producers had made the same request. Being the prideful artist that he was, Whitaker had answered the publisher the way his heart wanted him to. “It’s not a story that has a second piece to it. It’s done.” His agent disagreed, but Whitaker had assured him, “I’ve got more stories. Let’s not chase sequels. It’s a path that doesn’t always go so well.”
“Mario Puzo didn’t do that bad of a job.”
“I’m no Puzo. These characters have had their arc; they’ve already faced their worst nightmares. To revisit their stories would be a travesty, even if it filled our pockets with gold.”
His agent had said, “Let’s worry about more money now and travesties later.”
Whitaker responded to the man on Facebook’s post with: Imagine if Pat Conroy had written The Prince of Tides, Part II: Tom Wingo Goes to Disney World. No, not going to happen. Before he officially posted his reply, Whitaker realized he had no business comparing himself to Pat Conroy. Instead, he retyped his response: Have you ever seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest Two? Me neither.
Not quite ready to tackle his next masterpiece—and not for the first time—Whitaker tossed around title ideas for a sequel.Napalm Trees and Turquoise Waters II: Hunt for a Cool September.Whitaker smirked, enjoying a moment of flexing his creative muscle, which seemed to thrive more in the absurd. Or better yet:Agent Oranges Dangling on Citrus Trees.Even Jack Grant would laugh at that. The title was almost good enough to write a book around.
Whitaker came up with one more that satisfied him:Napalm Trees II: Attack of the Viet Cong Snowbirds.Considering snowbirds and the Viet Cong both came from the north, Whitaker decided that he did indeed still have some wit left in him.
With that out of the way, Whitaker opened upI Hear Thunder. He scrolled down to see how far he’d made it: 543 words. Three days of work. An amateur effort.
“Saul Bellow could type five hundred and forty-three words while he was brushing his teeth,” Whitaker mumbled.
He looked at the cursor flashing on the new line. The engulfing white space below. “Just start, you damned typist. One word after the other.” The cursor taunted him with each flash, like a big middle finger telling him he had nothing important to say. “C’mon, Whitaker,” the cursor said. “Are you scared, you little weenie? Do I put the fear of God in you?”
As if he were stabbing a flag into the top of Mount Everest, Whitaker brought his index finger down onto the “R” key with a triumphant, thunderous jab. The cursor revealed anrand then moved to the right, flashing once again.
With the little bastard taking the upper hand, Whitaker sat back in his chair and laughed at the idea of writing for a living. Even if.Even ifyou could get past all the doubt in your head and put together enough letters and words to make up the necessary word count for a novel, you still had to create compelling characters who either grew or were broken by their choices. And the plot needed to grip the reader like it was grabbing their testicles or their female bits. Above all, the story needed to move quickly. Pacing, pacing, pacing! People didn’t have the attention span they used to.
Even if you’d done all that once, and succeeded, you had to do it again, but better. The readers expected every sentence to sing. No such thing as trying to make the new one as good as the last. You had to do better. You had to one-up yourself.
Feeling a rush of anger at the cursor, Whitaker hit the “R” button again.
He jabbed it several times in a row.
rrrrrr
“How about that, you twinkly little shit? I’llryou to death. You’ll be singing pirate songs all the way to the landfill. Rrrrrrrrr, you ugly blinking bastard!” He mashed theRkey again, this time holding it down.
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
“Damn, that feels good!” So satisfying that his other fingers wanted to get involved. He set them free.
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