I Guess It Was Two Years Ago
I guess it was two years ago that I awakened to the reality that my book project at that time, a project I had worked on for five years or more, would never see the light of day.
I had written a draft containing more than 250 footnotes, I queried several agents — and secured representation –, wrote and re-wrote a proposal and then…crickets. Nothing. The literary agent tried. I assume she tried her best, but she was unable to garner interest from a publisher.
It devastated me that the book could not find a home. Then again, writing is a contact sport. If one lacks the fortitude to accept rejection, writing is the wrong profession. I don’t like whiney writers.
There was another nonfiction project I had turned my back on for far too long. However, I knew; knew that once I started I would risk PTSD, depression and more than a little scrutiny. Those assumptions have come true. A lot of the crap has returned.
Many writers favor fiction over nonfiction. It isn’t that one is easier than the other, it is only that nonfiction allows no escape, especially when a memoir. The lifeblood of nonfiction is truth. One cannot hide behind young adult or dystopian fantasy. It is raw and in your face.
The Sea of Peroxide
My nonfiction memoir, The Sea of Peroxide, is about New York City Paramedics during the HIV/AIDS crisis. The person recalling the true stories, and introducing the voices of other paramedics of the era, is me. I was witness. I treated and/or pronounced. I burned out and left the job in distress.
Do not be surprised that I would remember calls now more than 30 years ago. The hardest part of the job is forgetting. Remembering is easy.
The manuscript is currently holding at 85,000 – 86,000 words. The book terrifies me, it haunts me, it is forcing me to tell its story. It has gone through five drafts at this point. I am still not pleased with its pace. I whine too much in some areas, I don’t explain enough in others. Hopefully, draft six will make it a bit better.
I need to keep editing, to query agents, and hopefully, to find an agent who sees its promise. In the outreach to the universe with this humble post, I pray someone in the literary world sees what I am attempting to do, and favors me with a splinter, a spark, a tad of interest.
Many of the men and women with whom I served have passed. It was, after all, the early to late 1980s.
Failure of this project is not an option. I owe the past, partners, and especially the patients. The world slept as the disease ripped through whole populations.
I don’t know where the 6th draft will lead. I only know I have no choice but to state my truth.
Bruce Wolk, 303-725-5864
