Today, May 25, is Towel Day, an annual celebration of the life and creative work of Douglas Adams.

I first became aware of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy when I was in junior high, somewhere around 1981. A couple of my friends asked if I had read the book, and when I said I hadn’t, they pretty much left it at that and didn’t tell me any more about it. Sometime later I was at the library looking for something new to read and happened upon the familiar title. I was an avid reader, but didn’t quite know what to make of this; it seemed unlike anything I’d read before. Since the book wasn’t overly long, I didn’t hesitate to pick it up.

What I found was indeed was unlike anything I’d read before. By this time, I’d been watching Doctor Who and Monty Python’s Flying Circus on the local PBS station, but I hadn’t come across anything like this in print. Of course, later on I would find that Douglas Adams had worked on Doctor Who, and that the BBC had made a short TV series of the first book. But still, there wasn’t anything quite as intimate as having Douglas’s words filling my head, the narrator’s asides and the entries from that most remarkable book, the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, seeming to reveal to me another layer to the world that I hadn’t suspected was there before.

Through H2G2 and the books that followed, I came to see the world differently and not as threatening as I had before. From watching Monty Python, I had some notion of satire and how humor could be used to deflate the powerful. However, H2G2 seemed to do so without the cynicism that I had seen in satire up to that point. Seemingly, if one could keep one’s sense of humor about the stupid ways humanity finds to victimize one another, that was enough; one didn’t have to look for ways to make them look bad or somehow exact justice from the wrongdoers, which only made one more like those victimizers. It’s been a lesson that I’ve needed to be reminded of at various points in my life.

It was also while reading Douglas Adams’s writings that I first had the idea that I could be a writer myself. As I mentioned earlier, I was an avid reader, thanks to my mother having been a former school teacher. But up to that point, the reading that I’d done at home and the books assigned in school all seemed to have been heavy, important and significant works that were written by people that seemed to form a kind of elite that was elevated above those who would be reading their works. Here, in Douglas Adams, was a “He’s just this guy, you know” who was writing about the mundane aspects of humanity and our world. And he managed to do it in a framework of silly made-up incidents and wordplay that masked some really profound observations. For an awkward kid growing up in a rural area, for whom everything seemed a potential source of anxiety and unhappiness, this was a very fine thing indeed.

I remember how I started filling 3-subject notebooks with highly derivative imitations of Douglas’s writing, trying to understand what there was about a particular turn of phrase that made it work. I remember how a newspaper article or review of one of his books had featured a recipe for a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster that involved clear gelatin and Scope mouthwash, and how I tried making it in secret. I remember thinking that I had somehow found a fount of knowledge that my parents and grandparents weren’t privy to, the first intimation that there would be parts of my life that they wouldn’t be involved in and that I might have a life of my own separate from their expectations. I remember admiring Douglas’s commitment to endangered species, and thinking it marvelous that one could have a creative life that allowed one to make a larger contribution to the world.

It only remains for me to say Thank You, Douglas Adams, for your life and for your works. You left us too young and too early, and I think our world is poorer for it. Many times I’ve wondered what you would have made of reality TV, recent politics, the wonderful advances of science and communication, or what it would be like reading your blog, because I’m certain you would have had one. You are missed.

“I always hear about writers who’ve written four books that end up in a drawer, and their fifth book is the one that gets published. The first book I ever wrote was published, flaws and all. For better or worse, I was allowed to learn to write in public. I think those books are simply early efforts. You have to take them as they are. I don’t think they’re very deep or anything; I think they’re okay, but they simply represent where I was at that particular time.” – Robert R. McCammon interview, emphasis mine

Mr. McCammon made these remarks in 1988. Much has changed since then. With the advent of the Internet, there are now many different outlets, including fan fiction, blogging, self-publishing and more that are allowing more and more people to “learn to write in public.” I include myself among the number of people who still have much to learn about the craft of writing, and am now shamelessly inflicting my learning experiences on you, gentle readers.

I noticed last year that my book-buying habits had changed a bit. Mostly due to economic necessity, I wasn’t buying as many books because I simply didn’t have the money. I bought a few hardbacks, mainly those that were part of a series that I was already collecting, such as F. Paul Wilson’s Repairman Jack series, or from authors like Dean Koontz who I have been collecting for years. What I noticed that was different was an increase in reading self-published and small-press books. These included Mercury Falls by Robert Kroese, Cursed by Jeremy C. Shipp, The Force is Middling also by Kroese, Saving Rachel by John Locke and a few comics that I found while attending Starfest in April.

During college at East Carolina University I took a number of creative writing courses as electives. The experience of workshopping on my writing and the writing of others was good experience for learning to read critically, seeing if my writing was clear and getting my point across.

My most recent participation in learning to write in public was NaNoWriMo. I completed the challenge in 2009, but was not able to participate in 2010. My participation in NaNoWriMo consisted of a public commitment to write nearly every day during the month of November and to complete a wordcount without regard to quality. In the spirit of learning to write in public, I may edit my entry from 2009 and make it available for feedback.

My writing goals for 2011:

• Maintain this blog and others with regular updates and comments
• Write and edit a novel to a state where I could send it to agents and publishers. However, I may still decide to self-publish.
• Participate in online writing critique groups
• Attend at least one convention geared primarily toward writers and readers, like Renovation or Mile-Hi Con.

I’d love to get your feedback on what you’d like to see here and whether you think learning to write in public is good or bad for readers.

This story was published in the local literary magazine, Rough-Writers INK, last year. Reading it now, I have to say that I’m not very happy with it. I have some ideas on changes to be made, but thought it would be interesting to see what you thought as well. Please comment and let me know what you think.

An Open Heart, by John Marte

“Do you want to go in the water with the rest of them?” I asked Carl.

Carl looked to where the other children were playing in the ocean, beyond the breakers. Looking at them, you wouldn’t have known that they were all dealing with Type I diabetes, needing frequent monitoring of their blood sugar levels and diet. Most were dependent on multiple injections of insulin daily as well. And most couldn’t have gone to summer camp if this program hadn’t existed.

Looking away from the healthy looking children in the water, I braced myself to look over at Carl. Looking at him remained a bit of shock, even after a few days. He was small for his age, and his arms and legs were painfully thin. He looked especially gaunt around the face, where his cheek bones stuck out through thin flesh, and dark circles resided under his eyes. The rest of his skull was also plainly visible, since his hair had thinned considerably; the aftermath of chemotherapy.

He had his shirt off, revealing more evidence of his health challenges. He was pale, and his blue veins were visible across his chest and thin shoulders. His chest was marked by the beginning of a thick scar that ran from his collar bone down across his distended belly. This scar was from the open heart surgery he’d had 4 years previous. The swelling of his belly was not dissimilar from the pictures that had been coming out of Ethiopia recently of children that were starving to death.

“I’m not sure I can make it past the waves to get to where they are,” Carl said, peering into the bright sunlight to where most of the rest of the group was.

I could understand his reluctance, as I wasn’t a great swimmer and didn’t like getting water into my eyes or down my throat.

“How about if I carry you past there?” I asked, almost wishing he’d say no.

This week at summer camp was an opportunity for these kids to be together with others that were like them, kids that they wouldn’t have to explain their conditions to. And although Carl’s was an extreme case, he was just as accepted as the kids that looked normal. They didn’t exclude him, nor did he shy away from at least trying most of the activities that were offered.

“Yes, I think that would be OK,” Carl said, already starting to walk toward the water line. I followed him, waiting briefly while he got his feet wet, smooshing his toes through the sand and small sea shells. When he was ready, he wrapped his arms around my neck as I picked him up. He felt remarkably warm as I walked into the chill water, paying attention to my footing and keeping an eye Carl to see if he got frightened and wanted me to take him back. The water went deeper around my body, the rhythm of the waves and the sound of the water collapsing on the shore almost hypnotic. We were about 15 feet from the other kids and Carl was trusting me to get him that final distance to where they were floating and splashing each other laughing…

And I failed him.

The wave that struck when the water was just over my belly had built more strongly than the ones before, the water surging. Our mutual buoyancy pulled us up, our heads remaining above water, but my feet lost contact with the sea floor. When the wave rapidly subsided, I found my feet were no longer under me, and that we went under the surface. I lost hold of Carl and frantically tried to set myself upright, imagining the worst happening to Carl before I could get to him.

When I got my head above water and my vision cleared, I found Carl among the other children, already laughing and smiling, floating without any problem.

The contrast between my panic and his joyful acceptance was remarkable. In the midst of everything that I was so anxious about, he was simply happy; not happy in spite of his challenges, nor happy because he was overcoming his difficulties. The way we adults think of happiness is so needlessly complicated. He was simply happy, without needing a reason or because doing so was meant to be a victory against tribulation. With that realization, I knew that Carl and those other kids were the real counselors here.

© 2009, John Marte