I'm glad grandpa will never read my book
Probably not the first thought one should have when their grandpa dies...
I’ve been thinking a lot about writing and the role (if that’s even the right word/phrase/noun) that I want writing to play in my life.
These aren’t real thoughts—they’re the thoughts that happen behind the active thoughts.
Subconscious thoughts, maybe?
IDK.
First, I read this essay by
about the greatest threat to writers and it’s making me think:Simply put: there are too many people who want to be writers and too few jobs for writers. Supply and demand.
I knew this from the inside when I was studying book publishing in grad school. This might be the real reason why I stopped writing in college, too — some too many other writers were better than me. I didn’t want the competition.
Thinking about it now — I don’t think I knew that you had to study to become a good writer. That it’s not something you’re born with an innate talent to do.
One summer, my grandparents took my sister and me on a road trip from Iowa to Texas for a Gideon Convention (that’s a different story). I was around 8 years old. Grandpa said that I spent the entire trip telling an elaborate story that I made up.
When my grandpa heard I was writing a book, he’d share his memory about me telling that story (which he didn’t remember the plot of either). He’d tell it in a he-knew-I’d-be-a-writer-when kind of way.
(Not gonna lie, it felt good to see him take ownership of my talent and see him proud. As though generations of storytellers were passed down by the father’s side. Maybe that.)
My grandpa wrote and self-published a memoir about his life. He dedicated it to all of his grandchildren, then his children, and finally his wife.
I haven’t read it yet, but maybe I should?
The last time I saw my grandpa was in January 2022. I was in Iowa for a family funeral. We were all mourning, saying some of the things we didn’t normally say because of who we lost and our grief.
Grandpa asked how my book was going.
“Still working on it!”
“Tell us when it’s coming out. Grandma and I want to buy at least 25 of them,” he declared. “Want to give them to my friends.”
Church friends, probably. I imagined my grandpa handing out copies of my book from the back of his car in the church parking lot. Similar to how he’d always keep a box of Guidion pocket bibles—the size they used to leave in hotels—for the same reason too. To hand them out to anyone who might need one.
But this would be my book. A book written by his granddaughter about how she fell for the lie of happily ever after and found her groove doing a bunch of things that she doesn’t really want her grandpa to know about.
The things we don’t talk about in the church parking lot of the most conservative parts of Iowa state.
But my publisher would be thrilled—running around her office bragging about how her author, the international jet-setting divorcée, has a high concentration of fans in the middle of the U.S.
Last year, my grandpa had a heart attack. I was traveling in Japan and called him from the ski lodge I was staying at in Niseko.
“How’s your book going?” he asked, his voice whispering a little bit like it always did, changing the subject from me asking about his health.
“I’m actually in Japan now working on my book.”
That was a half-truth—I was heading to Tokyo the following week after skiing. Where I’d visit some of the places that are scenes in my book.
“Good,” he said. Then he told me not to fly to Iowa to see him. That there won’t be a funeral. How, when it’s time to go and God calls him, he won’t be afraid; he’s ready because he knows where he’s going to go.
Then he told me a story about trains.
My grandpa passed away the next week. My dad was there, luckily.
I was sad, but didn’t feel guilty for trying to fly across the world to see him. I wouldn’t have made it there on time, anyway.
My dad called me to tell me the story of how my grandpa died, surrounded by his children and grandchildren. Spending the last few days in hospice telling stories, laughing, and eating ice cream every day. No one could understand him without his dentures in.
I took the call outside, pacing in an alley behind my hotel on the outskirts of Roppongi, Tokyo. After I hung up, I laughed — at least this meant that grandpa wouldn’t be around to read my book.
I think the point I was trying to make after reading Leigh’s article is that if there are so many of us out there dreaming of being writers, then what’s the rush? The longer I take to “finish my manuscript” the more I learn about life and about writing. And about what that story is that I really want to tell.
My grandpa was pretty cool. And while that thought brought up a core memory that told young Laura that all writers are born, not made; adult Laura knows that she needs to learn.
Yes, she was born a great storyteller. And she can learn how to become one too.
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So sorry for your loss! My grandmother died before my book came out and I dedicated it to her. Your grandpa was clearly so proud of you ❤️