I found my first outline for Pocket8s (“8s”) on my old computer, in a file, the date – August 8, 2006.
I thought for sure I had started this idea in 2010 after the release of my second documentary, WHAT’S YOUR POINT, HONEY? That doc was about the then-ongoing (and continuous) dismal state of (and lack of) gender equality wrapped around the highfalutin concept of a woman actually becoming president. I suppose I was depressed about the lack of “umph” in the feminist movement (How are we not equal? How is being equal such a threat?), that I suppose I turned to something more optimistic – death.
Looking at this timeline, I actually started 8s right after the success of my first (audience-pleasing, uplifting) documentary MAD HOT BALLROOM. Perhaps I was channeling my own demise in the art of filmmaking and leaping into another genre to lift my spirits.
Who knows.
What I do know is that taking 16 years to write and publish my debut fiction novel, now, in hindsight, seems fitting. Every year added another layer of knowledge to the foundation of my fascination with death (and life through the lens of death).
In 2005, at a large Thanksgiving family gathering of my husband’s side of the family, my 70+ year-old mother-in-law mentioned that she was in favor of the government making euthanasia legal in this country. She said she had written letters to the President of the United States proclaiming the benefits of legalizing euthanasia. I was in awe of this (and, as usual, always, her). Other family members chided her. Her older 75+ year-old sister came to her rescue. They both claimed, right then, they wanted the choice to off themselves. Out of the blue, first my mother-in-law and then her sister seconding the motion, elected me the one to help them. Not their own adult-children. Not a good friend, a cousin who was a doctor, someone in Israel who might do this with proficiency, no, they chose me. Me. Me?
I surprisingly sat up straighter. I remember being on the floor playing with my 8-year-old twins. My instinct was to cover my daughters’ ears. What was this? I felt guilty? Ashamed? These were not wall-flower women (Wellesley and Smith grads). When they spoke up…well people didn’t always listen (let’s face it, it is a Jewish family gathering). But when these stately and powerful matriarchs assigned something of meaning to the shiksa-convert in the family, the others listened.
The rest of the family guffawed and yelled out in unison, “Why Amy?”
My mother-in-law replied, “Because she’s productive.”
Her sister replied, “She’ll get the job done.”
Laughter all around the room. But I knew they were right. I smirked.
I think Jack Kervorkian was in the headlines at that time. I know I was fascinated with him, his archaic, incompassionate “death-machine” in the back of a van, and his blatant attempt to politicize euthanasia (not making it better or easier for those who wanted it, but certainly making a statement). He brought the once taboo subject to the forefront of relevancy. I was also, through a neighbor, starting to get involved in the dying-with-dignity organization, Compassion and Choices (www.compassionandchoices.org).
I can’t remember if it was that family gathering, Jack, or attending those small group dignity death gatherings that served as the catalyst to start the book outline, but I did. After the outline, I started my research period reading books and watching any and all films, television shows, or news series about the topic: FINAL EXIT, THE GOOD GUIDE TO EUTHANASIA, JEAN’S WAY all by Derek Humphrey, MERCY by Jodi Picoult, YOU DON’T KNOW JACK (HBO). I also knew I wanted to include playing poker as a theme so I read several books. The two that reigned supreme for making poker understandable to the masses were MIKE CARO’S BOOK OF TELLS by Mike Caro, and of course, TEXAS HOLD’EM FOR DUMMIES by Mark “The Red” Harlan
The outline turned into a 300-page book. I hired a talented published author, and professor of creative writing, to help me polish what I thought (then) was a great book (of course!). Her thorough and excruciating (but honest, helpful and valid) notes put me in my place quickly. Her input made me throw the manuscript aside for about six months. I let it stare at me. I pivoted to other creative projects, and luckily, focused on keeping my day job that I would not be quitting anytime soon.
Time passing is a valuable asset.
I revisited the notes and went back to work revising 8s. Over these years it became a 200-page novel, a 100-page novella (more abstract in format…perhaps to ward off the “amatuer critics”), a treatment for a television series, along with commissioning two pilot scripts, a treatment for a television mini-series, and then the build out of a book again to about 200 pages. Hiring another talented published author, and again a creative writing professor, I dove in to take another lashing – and a lashing I got. This time, again, I threw his notes aside for about six months.
This mentor said one thing that lit the fire under my ass again, he said, “you’re about two rewrites away from having a book that would be ready for any agent to see it.”
Ah. Agents. The back and forth with my nonfiction book agent is not worth going into (note: I love her even though she couldn’t help me and I have never made her a dime). It’s the usual story. Unless I’m “James Patterson or Stephen King,” as a first time fiction writer, who is “known” to write non-fiction (I’m not known), I didn’t stand a chance in hell to get published. So I did what I always seem to have to do – go it alone.
My goal was to berth (and yes, birth too) this book, just like finding wall space for one of my paintings. I was not about to let 8s, 16 years in the making, sit in my computer files until my own death and have my, creative-in-their-own right, daughters find it and feel obligated to read it. F that. Additionally, let’s face it, I was never looking to be reviewed by the New York Times (God forbid) or win any awards. This is a mass-brow, good winter read (as opposed to summer beach read), that is dark in nature and thought provoking. This is a psychothriller where my goal is to have book clubs in every state discuss death, life, quality of life, self-delivery, abortion, choice, chance, timing, and luck – adding up to what it means to be human; not necessarily human in this world, but as a neighbor, a friend, a family member. As one very-wise friend said, “We have more compassion for pets than humans to how and when we put them down.” Why is this so?
Every book, movie or painting, at least in my domain, whether it be about why women are not equal to why are we not compassionate in human deaths, always begins with a simple question.
Some other possible inquiries answered?
No, I don’t hate Grosse Pointe. I was lucky to have been able to grow up there. But I do still find it an odd place.
While somewhat autobiographical, I embellish. It’ll be fun for readers to wonder what is real and what is not. Remember, in the end it’s fiction. And…on that note, don’t ask me a personal question unless you want to answer the same question yourself.
A second book? Yes. In revision but done. About a mom of three who gets addicted to Oxy and whether or not she wants to come back to reality – The Hole in the Rabbit.
A third book? Those wonderful broken boys of yesterday I get so passionately lost with in 8s? They are the subject of my third fiction novel currently in outline form – Broken Boys of Yesterday (and the one I am currently, accidentally trying to kill) (working title).