When I started writing Arlinda’s anecdotes, I was fresh out of college with an English degree and a concentration in Creative Writing. I was young and felt like I had the skills to do her story justice.

I collected her stories in notepads and various sheets of paper. They were okay, but they fell flat. I was missing her thoughts, feelings, and motivations. Using her stories as prompts, I asked for her to show her vulnerability.

More stacks of notes pulled up, which helped me sequence the narrative. I didn’t know what I was doing. The Rutgers University creative writing classes explored fiction in short story form. Maybe poetry was the closest thing to non-fiction in these classes. I had taken an Intro to Journalism class to satisfy one of RU’s Liberal Arts elective categories. But in my haste to pursue an early dream of a Business degree, I decided Journalism was not for me. It was looked down upon by many of my fellow students as a cop-out degree, anyway.

As I read the stories back to Arlinda to get her feedback, they stood alone as pillars of accomplishment, near accomplishment, and sometimes failure. There was nothing connecting the stories together. I discovered that by combining stories, going back and forth between scenes, I could build a stronger sense of themes, and her motivations.

After she passed away in 2012, I could no longer ask Arlinda for more details about her life. Her family and friends had a few stories here and there. I was stuck. I needed to finish her story to make good on my promise to her.

Braided narratives became a device I used greatly throughout the manuscript. I could see dualities everywhere, between scenes, chapters, characters. Things were finally coming together, and I felt great about the story.

But the more polished the manuscript became and the older and more experienced I got, I questioned whether this story would endear others as it had with me. I doubted whether my writing was good enough.

Of course, my mum had nice things to say about if. She is my mum. The next test was my friend, Linda. She loved, loved the beginning, and agreed with me that the middle lost its oomph. I did not know how to fix it.

I turned to my life partner, Nikki. She reads a lot, and her brutal honesty was most welcome: The story was too repetitive.

“Do you really need all of these scenes of you two waiting at the pharmacy?” she asked.

“I want to show the slog of waiting. I want the reader to feel our frustration.”

“They’ll put the book down if you frustrate them this much.” She was right.

I had to kill my darlings. So I trimmed and summarized the long waiting periods. With the two pharmacy scenes that remained, I focused on confusion for the first scene, and action/agency in the second one to show character development.

More beta readers liked it. I kept fixing things and tinkering with the story. I cut some scenes and added more. I found more notes and added them where I could. More interviews produced fuller scenes.

The query process hurt. I sent out 140 queries over the course of two years. I got back 49 rejections, with canned phrases saying they didn’t know how to sell the book. At first, I was invigorated by the rejections. If the agents spent the time to get back to me, even with a form email, I must be on the right track. But how many platitudes of “I really like your writing, but this project is not for me,” can one take?

I decided to hire an editor to give me the details on how to fix it. The manuscript elevated even higher, but still no agent would ask for a full or even partial. Just, No. Not for me.

I got in contact with a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist for his input. He have me more recommendations, and said that the writing and story were strong enough where it would be fairly easy to get an agent. But no agent agreed.

So I am self-publishing. I cast all of my doubts aside. I have worked on this project for 31 years, and have decided it is as good as I can do. Reading the manuscript one last time, it looks really solid. Can I adjust it and make some things a little better? Sure, but there is the adage, “Art is never finished, only abandoned.”

So, Arlinda. For your 75th birthday, I give you your story to the world. It may not have turned out exactly as you planned, but I believe it is good enough and close enough to your vision as it is going to get right now.