B0092XNA2Q EBOK (36 page)

I sunk lower in my chair.
Who is this guy!?
I felt undressed. Wounded. Laid bare. Downright mad. Somewhere in my office while throwing one of my tantrums, I might have given him the finger—several dozen times. And maybe said a few unkind words about his entire bloody lineage.

You might ask how and why I continued. Trust me, I did, too. First, I had signed a contract. But let’s be real honest. Given the verbal hazing I was enduring, they could shove their contract. So, on to number two, which is much more honest—I desperately needed the money. What else was I going to do? I didn’t have a backup. No plan B. But it’s the third reason that might be the most important. Despite my sheepskin pedigrees, I had this sickly feeling that everything he said was right. No, I didn’t like how he said it. Didn’t like it at all. But once I separated the “how” from the “what,” I began questioning, “Was he right?”

Something in me said yes. And although I told that voice to shut up on more than one occasion, it never did. Thus the lashing continued. So every morning I pulled myself off the floor and continued rewriting. And rewriting. And rewriting. In evidence of this, I rewrote the first chapter eighteen times. Yep. Eighteen. Baptism by fire.

About two months in, I made a snide comment over the phone. My bottom lip was sticking out far enough to trip over and I was swimming in self-pity. I said, “Well, hello John… it’s just me and my warts.”

He responded with curtness, “You know the old cure for warts?” I didn’t respond. I was too tired for jousting. “Snake oil!” From then on, he signed his letters
Doc Snake Oil
.

I was ready to shoot him.

After three months, I’d reached my end. I could fall no lower. I called him on the phone. My pride was gone. Self worth all but erased. My I-couldn’t-care-less meter was pegged. I felt he had no clue about his total deconstruction of me and there wasn’t much reason for small talk so I didn’t. I said, “John, is anything I’ve written in the last three months any good?” My voice rose. “Any good at all?”

The pause told me my question had surprised him. Set him back. After a second he said, “Charles, bloody hell! We’re not aiming for ‘good.’ ”

That’s when it hit me.

“Good” wasn’t the goal. “Good” was never the goal.

Somewhere in the next week or two, his notes contained this phrase. “Getting there!” I think I screamed out loud.

Weeks later, this came through my email. “Love it!” Followed by, “Splendid stuff. I laughed out loud.” So help me, at this, I pushed back from the desk, popped the tab on a cold beer, and propped up my feet.

Then this…

It took nine months, but we finished that book, both satisfied with a well-told story. Despite the sweat, and the pain, and our best efforts to the contrary, it was never published. A tough pill to swallow, but that’s fodder for another memory. Another day.

The point is not whether it was published. The point is what he and that process did in me. Until then I
had written
, but working with John, I
became a writer
.

Big difference.

Over the years, our correspondence morphed from teacher-student to the warm conversations between two invested friends. And, somewhere in there, maybe when my fiction sold and crossed the ocean and landed on the London newspaper beneath his nose, he quit critiquing altogether and became one of my biggest fans. (You can read his review of
Where the River Ends
on
Amazon.com’s
UK website.) For reasons I do not understand, and to this day cannot make sense of, John Dyson had taken me from Good to Great. A beautiful transformation.

Just lovely.

We shared stories of our kids, wives, dogs, adventures, and pictures of all of the above. Much of his email he signed
Doc
. Even now as I read that,
Doc
, I don’t remember the bitter taste of snake oil. I remember my friend, John.

John Dyson died in May 2012. Cancer. I wept then. I’m crying now. In his last days, as he lay dying in hospice, his daughter told me she printed out a story I’d written and that despite the morphine, he read it. I like the thought of that. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to hug his neck. To say all this.

I’m thirteen years into a writing career and you are holding my ninth book. If there’s merit to my craft, John Dyson had a lot to do with it. He was quite possibly the finest writer I’ve ever known. And a dear friend. John once told me that my books had “impacted”
him. Even greatly. That may be so, but if you look inside me, down where people touch me, you’ll see his fingerprints. St. Bernard was right—we’re all just dwarves perched atop the shoulders of giants. And I miss mine very much.

In one of his last emails to me, he penned these words. They were fitting then. They’re fitting now. We were talking about the process of writing. We were talking about life.

Discussion Questions

1. Why do you think the title of the book is
Unwritten
? In what ways is that theme conveyed in the book?

2. Shortly after meeting Peter, Katie confesses to Steady, “I don’t like the way I treat people.” Why do you think she behaves the way she does? Is her behavior justified?

3. Why would Steady believe that Peter and Katie are more capable of helping each other than he is of helping either of them?

4. Do you think Peter did the right thing in helping Katie through door number three?

5. Were Katie’s fans truly mourning her after her death? Is the act of mourning about the person lost, or the person who is mourning?

6. In what ways are Peter and Katie similar? How does it impact their relationship?

7. Why do you think Katie had so many disguises? Were they a help to her or a hindrance?

8. In what ways is Katie influenced by the opinion of society throughout her life? How has it shaped who she is?

9. Peter stops writing after he loses Jody, even though there are many children who love his stories. Why is that? Was it really about Jody?

10. Discuss the theme of forgiveness in the novel.

11. In what ways does Katie help Peter?

12. What do you think would have happened to Katie and Peter if Steady had not pushed them together? Could they have healed on their own?

An Interview with the Author

Are any of the characters in Unwritten inspired by real people?

No one single character in any of my stories is a representation of anyone that I know or have met, but most of my characters pull pieces from several people I either know, have met, have read about, or can dream up. I don’t mean to make light of the process, but one of my favorite scenes in the movie
Toy Story 2
is when Mrs. Potato Head is getting Mr. Potato Head ready for his big journey—stuffing car keys, a golf ball, cheese puffs, and his “angry eyes” in his back. Every time I watch that scene I think to myself, “That’s a lot like building a character.” You think I’m kidding…

In what ways do you identify with Peter? How are you different?

One of the ideas behind this story, that forced it to the surface in me, is this idea of gifting, or calling. The idea that it’s wrapped around our DNA, in each of us, and that no matter what, we can’t
shake it. Peter is gifted. Far more than I am. But something hurts him. Something dings him. And, in pain, he takes his gift and runs. Why? Because the expression of it has become too painful. Ask any honest, seasoned artist, and he or she will tell you that they’ve struggled with this at some point.

Not every reader, viewer, or consumer is going to “get” your art. Some will castigate, throw stones, spray paint on your water tower, and make statements about your heart when they have little to no idea what’s actually in it. They will accuse you of ideas, thoughts, and intentions that are not yours, never have been, and never will be. But nonetheless, they say them. And that old adage about sticks and stones is a lie. Words hurt. A lot. Because we’re artists, and because we drink life through a fire hose, and because we offer our heart to others—our bag of broken pieces—we cannot help but be impacted by this. It’s in our nature, our gifting, to feel. It’s how and why we do what we do. It allows us—it allows me—to write what I do. And yes, sometimes it hurts… a lot. Peter is not me, but I can empathize with his life. With his response. Is it the right one? I haven’t said that. I’ve just said I understand it. No matter how far Peter runs or how completely he isolates himself, he cannot kill or outrun his gift. It’s Peter Pan’s shadow. Never far behind.

At a recent speaking event, an audience member called out, “You write like a girl!” How is it that you are able to write novels that appeal so strongly to women? Is there something in your background that has influenced this aspect of your writing?

I grew up with three sisters, a mom, a female parakeet, and a female black lab. Maybe that had something to do with it.

It used to ding me when readers waved my books in my face and stated, “You write love stories.” Made me feel like a windswept Fabio should be posing on my covers. I’d scratch my head and glance over my shoulder. “Why can’t I write cool guy stuff like Vince Flynn, Clive Cussler, Robert Ludlum, W.E.B Griffin, or
Louis L’Amour? What’s wrong with me?” But while I enjoy those stories and admire those writers, deep down I don’t want to write like them. It took me a while to see that. To be okay with being me. I like what I write. That’s why I write it. I used to joke that I write like me ’cause I can’t write like them. I quipped, “If I could, I would.” We both know that’s not true. I’m writing the stories in me that I can’t
not
write, regardless of how they come across.

When that lady stood up and screamed, “You write like a girl!” she was affirming that I write with emotion. That I don’t bury it. That I say things that her heart and others’ hearts need and want to hear. And yes, that goes for me, too. And I’m okay with that.

I wrote
Thunder and Rain
(in part) for this very reason—that us guys are good at living out of one side of our hearts but we stumble when it comes to living fully out of both sides. (This goes for me, too. Just ’cause I’m talking about the idea doesn’t make me a pro.) We’re good at storming the castle, at slaying the dragon, but we ain’t too good at dinner table conversations in the weeks, months, and years ahead. “Good with sword and spear” does not necessarily equate to “Good at listening to wife” or “Good at engaging with kids.” Maybe my stories are my attempt to awaken this part of my own heart.

John Eldredge is right—we are living out a love story and yet we were born into a world at war. We are Londoners during the Blitzkrieg. I love the stories of the guys I’ve mentioned above, and if I was stuck in a bunker in London with the Germans raining bombs down on my head, I may very well read their stuff as an escape. We’d pass around their books and say how good they are and what we liked about them. But when I’ve turned the last page, and curfew has clicked off the power and I’m laying in the dark listening to the rumbling above me, I’m still wrestling with how to wake up tomorrow morning and put one foot in front of the other. Questions like: How do I fight for the heart of my wife? My kids? Friends? My own? What’s it look like? How do I walk that out?

Yes, I hope readers like my stories. Yes, I hope they’re entertained. Yes, I hope they pass them around and talk about them.
But more than that, when the lights go out and they’re facing a tough tomorrow, wondering how to climb out of bed and just stand upright in a world where the bombs are raining down, I hope that something about my story reaches down inside them where the world has dinged them, in the dark places they don’t talk about, and whispers the words they alone need to hear.

Have you been to any of the places where Unwritten is set?

Yes, most (I think), if not all. Those I haven’t been to, I made up. ;-) Rarely do I put a “place” in a story if I haven’t been there. If I can’t smell it, it’s tough for me to write about it. I spent time in the Ten Thousand Islands, the Everglades, the Gulf, the Keys, Miami, New York, and France. My wife, Christy, loves it when I “research” settings and take her with me. After our trip to France, she thinks my next book needs to be set in Hawaii.

Where did you get the idea for the orchids Peter puts up in the trees?

We were driving out of Miami after a weekend there and drove by an orchid cart on the side of the road. Three for $20. Or four for $25. Something like that. Christy bought a few. While she was talking with the owner, my mind wandered to the Everglades and the Island. One thing led to another. How I got from that roadside cart to thirty feet up in a tree in the middle of the Everglades is a testimony to the wonder and majesty of story and one of my favorite things about what I get to do every day.

What is the most surprising question a reader has asked you? What was your response?

Not sure. There have been several. A few I can’t repeat. But the thing that amazes me more and more is when people ask to take a
picture with me. Seriously. And don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind. Take all you want. I’m happy to oblige and I’m happy you want to be seen with me. Please let me know if I’ve got something stuck in my teeth. I guess it’s just strange. I can understand taking a picture with somebody famous, but I’m just Charles. I wear socks. I brush my teeth. I can be grumpy. I realize therein lies the difference. Your perspective of me versus my perspective of me. You see me as the guy behind the stories. I see me as husband and dad and son and dreamer.

Somewhere in this line of thought is the “thing,” or one of the “things,” that fed the writing of
Unwritten
. The idea that man is not made to be worshipped. To be praised. It’s antithetical to our DNA. We’re not made to receive it, but to reflect it. Want a good picture of this? Pour gasoline in a Styrofoam cup and you’ll see what I mean. It eats you from the inside out, eventually spilling you across the sidewalk. And Katie, and Peter, and to a much less and smaller extent, Charles, can tell you a good bit about this.