This will be my eighth published novel, and I think it is my best work. It’s a story I’ve come to love, one I’m very proud of. I should be cracking open a bottle of Champagne and tap dancing down Main Street, right?
That exuberant attitude was my stock reaction to my seven previous novels, but I find myself, for the first time, feeling profoundly disheartened about the prospect of giving this work to the world. This story is special to me, and draws from several incidents I experienced during my time serving in the U.S. Navy.
Yes I want to share this work with readers who can appreciate the story and the love that went into it. This work, however, is so personal, that I dread having editors change the wording, or have book reviewers tear it apart, analyze it to death, and attempt to give it some meaningless star rating. In short, I don’t want people fucking with it or judging it.
J.D. Salinger, after writing Catcher In The Rye, became a recluse. He continued to write every day, yet he never published anything after Catcher. For the first time, I’m beginning to understand his motives. That is, I’m realizing that the process of creation is the main goal, and it is enough.