family – T.F. Pruden the writer dot com

A Whippoorwill Called.

But, and despite my knowledge of countless narrative and character details, I won’t ever know all of it. Not even when it’s done. For as a writer, my first job is getting the parts I know about right. The second is leaving the rest to the reader’s imagination.

You know, the way we must in daily life.

Hello and welcome, reader.

As always, it’s my pleasure to have you join me.

Since launching the new site, I’ve published these things on irregular Saturdays. That’s because many of you work during the week, and I want to give you something to read over a weekend morning coffee.

I still don’t know what to call them.

By now, you also know I favor the essay format here. Though I sometimes stray into a style not unlike the short story. In form, if not content, that is.

Because, you know, I’m a rule-breaker. Either that, or unreliable. Of course, it might depend on who you ask, too.

Anyway, this time, my reason for interrupting your weekend is legit. Because my eighth novel publishes next week, on Tuesday, April 15th, 2025. If you’re on the mailing list, I’ll send you an email announcing when the book is available. I’ll send along a URL and invite you to buy a copy, too.

Once again, eBook and paperback edition covers feature a licensed work by Indigenous artist Lonigan Gilbert.

A Whippoorwill Called is the first novel I’ve written as a full-time writer. And I can’t wait for you to read it.

For a preview, click the cover image embedded below here.

Thanks again for your support.

Because writing is a dream for this writer. And every time you read one of my novels, it comes true.

It’s a hell of a deal.

I imagined doing this as a kid. It’s miles beyond satisfying to live it.

So, this time out, beyond the big news, I’m sharing a little history. As usual, I’ll let you decide how much is fact or fiction. For, once again, I’m not sure.

Anyway, for the writers in the crowd, it might be as revealing as any I know. While for everyone else, it could make reading my stuff more fulfilling.

I’ll start with a note about the writing process.

Which, for many of us, remains a daunting challenge. No matter at what point of the writer’s journey, we find ourselves.

Because it’s a solo trip, and the end remains forever out of sight.

There’re no maps, either. And, for me, it turns out full-time effort makes a material difference to the finished work.

That’s a tough one to swallow.

But plain enough, too, when looking back.

That’s because, you know, results speak for themselves. For better and worse. And, in twenty-first century terms, I suck at multi-tasking.

All the same, I wrote my first two novels in between the last few years of Harwill tour dates. In relative terms, the first one proved a minor hit.

I was, of course, encouraged by the early results. And the next spring, when Harwill retired from the stage, believed me ready for life as a writer.

The second one missed the mark.

While I grew ever more dissatisfied with my writing.

And, no surprise, I remained reluctant, too. Of all things designed to limit or constrain my freedom, as either artist or individual. You know, stuff like success and the boundless trappings that come with it.

For I prize independence over all else. And thus, prefer my way over anyone else’s, too, when it comes to spending time. At work, or otherwise.

Despite the preference, my search for trusted advice is near constant. As likewise, those in my circle got sick of the review requests long ago.

However, as they do for everyone, my desires manifest, too. And I’m damned lucky to enjoy independence. Because, for me, that meant writing my next four novels before work, while building a startup company.

In absolute terms, they flopped.

And my dissatisfaction grew with each of them.

For the writing I intended proved beyond my grasp. And with each, I became less sure my talent would ever allow me to achieve it.

The startup’s failure let me write the sixth and seventh novels while working only part time. In between shifts as a writing coach and magazine columnist.

Extra time helped me get closer to the truth.

I was relieved when the sixth one scored another small hit. And thrilled when the seventh made it to third on the minor league charts.

But A Whippoorwill Called is the first I’ve written as a full-time novelist.

Though it’s now a decade since my first novel published.

And getting here took far more than a change of style.

Though that’s plain enough, too, if you’ve read the older stuff. That was the plan, anyway. To show the progress from start to wherever it might finish. And perhaps, to thus share a few of the challenges that lie ahead for those coming along behind me.

More than anything else, I believe that is the way.

For those new to these ramblings, I started as a high school poet.

If you’ve seen the about page here on the website, you’re not surprised to learn I’m now a grandfather.

Anyway, I believe every artist’s life is best viewed as an object lesson. That includes mine.

Now, for an aspiring writer, this next thing is important. I’m lucky to have a small circle of close friends. Many of them are fellow artists. And to them, I owe more than words can say.

This one is big, too. See, I was born into a family rich in arts talent. So, as a boy, I got to see musicians, painters, and writers up close. In the form of both near and distant relatives. Their influence on me and everything I do is plain enough.

To me, anyway.

But some have had more to say about what I do than others. My brothers, without a doubt, had more influence on me than anyone.

I’ve written about them, now and then. And of their influence on me and my work, too. And yes, I know.

I’m blessed. Grateful, too.

Of course, what I believe the greatest blessing to all of us is our children and theirs. Here’s an example of why.

Not so long ago, I discussed my work with a nephew. He’s an emerging artist on Canada’s fine art painting scene. And it’s a rare topic, even when talking with him.

Because my rep for avoiding such talk is well-earned. But I respect both his immense talent and his discerning tastes.

“How goes the latest manuscript?”

When drafting a manuscript now, I write six days per week. On the off days, I like to do a little writing.

Because, you know, I believe in the power of practice.

“Well, I’ve figured something out. But I’m not yet sure. Let’s say I’m optimistic.”

As a writer of novels, meanwhile, my process relies on detailed manuscript outlines. That means I get to know a story quite well, long before writing it.

“You don’t say? And what’s that, anyway, uncle?”

You know, the way we must in daily life.

“It’s a synthesis of advanced concepts and simple language.”

Which also means I don’t quite know what I’m doing while I’m doing it. Not if I’m doing it right, anyway. That’s because if I did, I wouldn’t be able to do it at all.

“Well, I look forward to reading it.”

For me, it’s what makes first drafts so much fun to write, too. Despite all of them being destined for an anonymous end.

“Thanks, nephew. I can’t wait to share it with you.”

That, and the idea of granting the only immortality we know to people who earned it. The best and only way I know how.

But not everyone responds to my novels the same way.

“Why the fuck can’t you just tell me a story?”

My younger brother, to whom I dedicated A Whippoorwill Called, spoke via long-distance phone call.

“What do you mean?”

He’s the father of my nephew, the painter. As well as a talented artist and writer himself. And maybe I imagined the frustration in his voice.

Though I have my doubts.

“I mean, you ain’t making music, kid. Enough with the fucking lyrics already!”

I’d be lying if I told you criticism doesn’t hurt. That’s despite enduring a lifetime of it. Because if it didn’t, then whatever I’ve done is false.

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste, I guess.”

Try recalling that the next time someone cares enough to critique your work. Then, embrace the brutal reality of life as an artist.

“Fuck that! Make it like you’re sitting in my head telling me a story! Forget all this grammar and bullshit and make it, so I don’t have to grab a fucking dictionary to make sense of it.”

The words of a brother differ from those of a friend. And, sometimes, they’re more insightful than those of any critic, too.

At such moments, it’s a point worth remembering. Because all good writing is rewriting. And where you start isn’t where you want to finish.

Now, I’m some lucky. That’s for sure. And I know it, too. Because my younger brother spent years in the newspaper rackets. There, he had his best work edited daily. So, that he believes my stuff worth reading is a serious compliment.

His son, meanwhile, is more talented than both of us. It sure looks that way to me, anyway. And younger people reading my stuff is a big part of why I write. Because, though I write about those who were there, it’s meant for those that weren’t.

That’s also why I write about people, neither he nor you, got a chance to meet.

And of times which he was too young to know.

“I’m not sure. But it looks like the peak.”

I’m now at work on the follow up, and the form is holding.

“Only question is how long it lasts. Because the stuff is writing itself, nowadays.”

How’s that for an existential paradox? Well, it’s just like Sam Clemons claimed, I guess. You don’t have to make anything up if you tell the truth.

“You don’t say? Well, uncle, that’s … interesting, I guess?”

His voice reminds me of his dad. It always makes me smile, too.

“Time will tell, nephew.”

I guess knowing those two read them is a big part of what makes writing novels worthwhile for me, as well.

Though it’d be news for me to say that. To either of them, I mean. But like I said before, you know. Blessed.

Now, here’s a little personal philosophy. By that, I mean words by which to live. Which also justifies my taking eight minutes of your precious time.

For here, the words of Aurelius ring true, while failure becomes success. As what stands in the way can only become it.

While doing makes being possible.

Likewise, how becomes clear because of why. For making art is each artist’s attempt to stop time. And pursuing beauty has ever meant finding danger. As sure as chasing truth means accepting a world made of lies.

Because the want for change is a call to act. Just as our knowing more must ever mean we know less. While only living today produces laughter tomorrow. For being you is first a demand to respect others. And there’s no strength in weakness.

From that, I suggest taking what you need and leaving the rest. Know always, too, that my best wishes go with you when you leave this place.

With that, the latest rumination ends.

Thanks for grabbing a copy of A Whippoorwill Called. I’ll look forward to reading your review.

Until next time, thanks for being here, and for sharing this with anyone who might like to read it.

TFP

April 12, 2025

The unplanned lunch.

But, as all those who have done enough of it know, the world is smallest to those who travel. So, it was no surprise, to me, when the once young writer and I again met when each of us passed through another of the world’s countless crossroads.

Hello and welcome, reader.

As always, it’s my pleasure to receive your online attention.

For here in these rural parts I call home, the wheel turns, and the hamsters run, much as they do wherever you might find yourself on this luckiest of rocky blue marbles. As nowadays, global trade has turned these postmodern times into a near homogenous parade of pointless sight and sound for all but the most isolated of us.

To some, my claiming luck is enough to provoke a sneer, if not an argument. But as the death of optimism was reported everywhere, I won’t bother repeating the news here.

Anyway, the glass remains at least half full, to me.

That’s despite the empty promises of collectivism now sweeping the globe, by the way. Made possible thanks to the greatest evil to confront the twenty-first century so far, social media. I call it Fascism 2.0, for short. It’s the same old script, distract people with enough bullshit so the wildest lies start looking like the truth.

Of course, the sweetest irony, for me, is the widespread refusal to learn from even the most recent of our shared history. In fact, based on the current rush to embrace autocracy and collectivism, one might think the twentieth century didn’t happen. If that’s not funny, I don’t know what could be.

But these are sensitive times, with facts believed little more than inconvenient, by those with a political agenda. Though few, if any, will admit either that, or that they have one, without a fight.

What else could such absurd and lemming-like behavior be, aside from hilarious?

I know only this. It’s easy to be distracted by one’s perception of what’s happening. And that makes it simple to lose sight of not only where one is, but where one wants to go.

But rather than argue about it, this month I’m sharing a story that better illustrates my point. Like all stories, this one may or may not be true. However, being fact or fiction will make no difference to your enjoyment of it.

So, away we go.

When still a young man myself, I got to know a handsome young writer who claimed to want to write more than anything else. He had the gift of gab and told me he was consumed by a desire to write great works of art. And so, wherever he went, and whenever I saw him, he carried a pencil and notepad in some pocket of the tweed blazer he most often wore.

He made a point of being seen at cafes, nightclubs, and parties, too, scribbling in the notepad. For much like today’s cohort, the young writer struggled with the weight of expectations. These included his own and what he imagined as his fellows, along with those of his vocation. Unknown to him then, as it is to many now, the world cared nothing for his wants, and these devilish concerns lived only in his mind.

I was a young drunkard at the time, and still learning the trade. I first made acquaintance with the handsome young writer at a local watering hole. Like myself, he enjoyed a drink, and, once again, like me, perhaps a little too much for his own good. Anyway, I took scant notice, then, as we met only when one or both of us was on a party.

One hungover morning, after sharing a binge or two, he asked me to read something he wrote, and I did. Because he didn’t ask for it, I offered him no criticism. From then on, when on a bender together, he would give me more of his stuff to read.

Just as with all who claim ‘writer’ as either vocation or profession, what he wrote was most often bad, sprinkled with some good. His work also left little doubt he was quite a talented writer. And though I thought him a great competitor, our friendship carried on through the formative years of my early twenties.

Life and circumstance being what they are, the handsome young writer and I went separate ways in pursuit of individual goals. For the next several decades, we remained out of touch, and, in fact, as unknown to one another as though we had never met.

He sat at a table in the window of a restaurant overlooking a busy downtown city street, speaking to a server. Even from a distance, and despite the passing of many years, his striking good looks stood out. I was on my way to the same place and noticed him from across the way as I waited for the light to change.

It was a thrill to see the no longer young writer, and I hoped he would be as happy as I to renew our friendship.

After walking in, I told the hostess I was meeting a friend, and strode up to stand before the fellow’s table. Upon arrival, I spoke out at once.

“Howdy stranger,” I said, “long time no see.”

As I was speaking, he lowered the book from which he read and placed it with care in his lap. For a moment, I feared he didn’t know me. Then he raised a single eyebrow and grinned up at me as he made his reply. I didn’t have time to notice the book’s title before he spoke.

“By god,” he said, “fancy meeting you here, you pirate!”

He stood, and placing his book on the chair, embraced me. A moment later, we shook hands and exchanged pleasantries, and he invited me to sit and join him. Of course, I accepted without hesitation, because we at once had picked up where we left off thirty-five years or more ago, as birds of a feather with a long way yet to go.

Though neither of us, I thought, knew what had become of the other in the meantime.

For the next hour, we caught up. As it turned out, he was eating lunch before catching a flight to his home on the east coast, at the end of a business trip. Meanwhile, after visiting family to the south, I was passing through on the drive north to my small town home on the high prairie.

Our meeting was as pure an example of coincidence as anything I’ve known.

Even by then, both of us were grandfathers. For each of us, life had been full, too. While the years had treated him with kindness, the once young writer was now a grey-haired executive, pushing software for Big Tech. Like many of our cohort, he long ago left for the better-paying pastures of our southern neighbors and turned his degree into dollars. Though, despite the abundant greenbacks, he told me it took years to pay off his school debt at home.

From our smartphones, we shared countless family photos, and soon learned we had each been equally blessed. Though our paths had no doubt taken different directions.

Somehow, the hour of our unplanned lunch slipped away, and too fast, besides. Soon, it was time for us to part. To me, given our circumstances, it looked sure that we should never again meet.

Then, for just a moment, nostalgia threatened to overtake me and ruin the great blessing of seeing my once good friend. With a quick shake of my head, I returned to the moment and smiled at the no longer young writer, who was making a request.

I will admit he caught me by surprise.

“Before I go,” he said, “and knowing I might not see you again, I’d like to ask a favor.”

I was surprised and may even have raised my eyebrows before answering him.

“Well, let’s hope our paths cross again, somewhere,” I said, “and whatever can I do for you?”

He picked up the book on the chair next to him and handed it to me before speaking.

“Well,” he said, “I’d appreciate it if you could autograph my copy of your latest novel.”

Like I often am at such rare moments, I was flustered by his request. But I did as he asked, and he looked pleased when reading the inscription after I was through. A few minutes later, we parted. He in a cab headed east to the airport, me in a van driving north to the highway. As far as I know, we’ve not seen each other since.

Now, I think it important to say he was dressed in style. In a word, he looked great. But, because clothes make the man, though neither of us mentioned it, the wealth gap between us was made plain in what we each wore. By my crude accounting, I thought he must earn my annual income in less than a week. In contrast, mine wouldn’t be enough to pay his yearly green fees.

But he was gracious about it and picked up the tab for lunch without a word.

While driving home that day, what passes for insight here came upon me. At one time, both the once young writer and I were distracted by what we perceived as life’s major concerns. And so, we made things beyond our control more important than reaching for what looked to be simpler dreams. Only much later, after discovering the pitfalls of peer pressure and collective thinking, did either of us find an individual path to the life he most wanted.

To each of us, the demands of the nameless herd proved not only false, but dangerous. Just as ignorance of history means, today’s youth are as distracted from reality by events beyond their control as were those in the last century. While, as usual, the gulf between have and have-not increases. For only the status quo is served by ignorance.

Sadly, I haven’t seen or heard from the no longer young writer since that impromptu lunch date. But I hope he liked the novel, just the same.

Now, I’m not sure if my story’s use of metaphor is clear enough for everyone to appreciate. Likewise, its balance of symbol and motif might not be elegant enough for some readers. While its attempts at humor, meanwhile, may prove too crude for others.

I don’t care about any of that.

All that matters to me is you getting what I’m trying to say. Because I’m not speaking to anyone but you, reader. And what’s most likely is, we’ll never meet.

That’s just how it should be, too. After all, I’m a writer, and my job is sharing our story. Not just with you, but for you, as well.

As ever, thanks for being here, and for sharing this with anyone you think might like to read it.

TFP

May 11, 2024