There’s been a book sitting on my night table for the last two years. I’ve been meaning to give it a good read, but other things always seemed to get in the way. Before I knew it, the book had found itself beneath a stack  I’m still working my way through.

 

Will I ever get around to reading it?

 

It isn’t like I don’t know the story; if anything, I know the story pretty well. I know every thought behind every word written. I know the characters a little more intimately than I should. I know how it starts and I know where it ends. But even then, I still haven’t read the book.

 

I mean, why should I? I wrote it.

 

Like most of my favorite pieces of art, I wrote my book because of a girl. In fact, I started writing it the moment she told me  that I should write one. Looking back now, I’m pretty sure the reason she suggested I write a book was so I’d be distracted enough to leave her alone!

 

But it didn’t matter. Something was lit inside me and I was hell-bent on dashing off a classic.

 

It was going to be my “High Fidelity.” It was going to be my answer to Liz Phair’s “Exile in Guyville.” It was going to be my “Clerks.”

 

I was Lloyd Dobler, and this book was going to  be the boombox over my head, serenading the girl on the other side of the window.

 

As far as plot goes, I did nothing new: a directionless 19-year-old hooks up with a girl who’s as big a nerd and outcast as he is, and somewhere along the way, he starts to grow up and take charge of his life.

 

Romantic comedy

 

It’s the classic ’80s romantic comedy set in Manila, and the only thing setting my story apart from “Say Anything” or “Some Kind of Wonderful” was that this was going to be my story.

 

I loaded it up with a soundtrack of 14 of my favorite songs and little references in the pages that alluded to a time in alternative rock I wished I was old enough to have lived through. The title character was to be named after a Replacements record, “Tim.” And yes, I did imagine him being portrayed by a young John Cusack.

 

I used Facebook and DeviantArt to announce my scheme to the world, and almost instantly I was bombarded with well-wishes that were criminally negligent, now that I think about it.

 

Yeah, writing a novel is a big, exciting thing that hardly anyone seems to have the nerve for, but what people fail to see is that writing a story of that length and proportion is a really maddening thing.

 

For the better part of one year, I chipped my way through “Tim,” completely driving myself to the point of insanity. The art of writing is by nature solitary; I can’t even count the number of nights I stayed up until 7 in the morning, hopped up on coffee, just chipping away at this epic piece of writing I was sure would change the world.

 

I was lucky I had a strong support system of friends, who cheered me through the finish line, and by the time I got there, I was completely exhausted.

 

I can’t even begin to describe how exhausted I was by the time I finished “Tim.” With all the support I had, I (foolishly) believed that the world was ready to take a look at my manuscript and that, in a matter of months, I’d be able to walk into Fully Booked and buy my book.

 

But no, that didn’t happen. When it was all said and done, hardly anyone wanted to read “Tim.” It was incredibly disheartening. I didn’t even want to prove anything to the girl I wrote it for anymore—I just wanted someone to tell me if I did  a good enough job.

 

It would really grind my gears whenever someone came up to me, asking me to judge their stupid photo or whatnot, but paid hardly any mind when it came to my work. As if writing isn’t respected enough as an art.

 

I’m sorry to say this, but any idiot with the right tools can take a good picture, but it takes a completely different kind of beast to string words together into a cohesive sentence  and create a story, let alone a book.

 

Swimming along

 

As much as it sucked, I had to remember that the world kept on moving, and I was better off swimming along. After working on  “Tim,” letting go was the sanest thing I could give myself.

 

Life went on. I kept busy by playing in a couple of short-lived bands, and with my new love for fanzines, I self-published two of my short stories.

 

And to my surprise, a couple of friends took the time to read “Tim.” My buddy Claire told me you could actually make a drinking game from all the kissing in the book. Awesome! While JD Salinger inspired a generation  of teenagers  to call each other “phony,” I’d be inspiring a new generation of teenagers to fall in love and make out.

 

Another friend told me that this was the kind of story that should have been made into a movie years ago.

 

I’ll be honest, it was nice to hear all this about something I spent a year working on. At the very least, this was all I could ask for, really.

 

I decided to take “Tim” and give it a proper read; close by was a red marker, ready for any corrections and changes that must be made.

 

I’m reading it now, but there’s something a little bit different as I go through it this time.

 

I can’t quite place my finger on it—but it kinda sucks.

 

From a narrative standpoint, my writing now is a lot stronger (and more respectable), and I’ll be damned, there is a lot of kissing in this book—scratch that, there’s too much kissing!

 

What the hell was I thinking?! These characters don’t need a book—they need a motel room!

 

Regardless of the parts which do remain strong, the whole thing needs a complete rewrite, and as I let things sink in, I’m starting to wonder if this was what I should have done from the moment I finished the story.

 

I’m glad only a handful of people bothered to read it. Imagine if I picked this up at  Fully Booked right now. I’d be standing there, holding my book with an unshakeable cringe! Not only would I want to burn my own hard work, I’d feel compelled to run off to a different city under a new name.

 

So I’m letting things sink in, and over a warm cup of coffee and a good smoke, I thought about “Tim,” the reason I wrote it,  and the time I spent writing it.

 

I was 21; hardly any of my favorite writers made anything worth reading at that age.

 

At 21, I was naive and completely taken by the sight of the world and everything it had to offer me. I was drunk on love and I would have gladly taken the chance to prove myself to any worthy girl that came my way.

 

Maybe in the end, that’s what “Tim” is supposed to be: a reflection of myself at 21. And given how jaded I’ve become, there’s a lot for me to learn in his story.

 

Mike Litton emerged from the womb in December of 1988. Currently on a break from school to make lots and lots of money, he spends his free time writing, geeking out, and teaching kids how to write their own stories. You can read his fiction at www.littleolympia.tumblr.com