My father, Sidney Jessel Cohen, died in 2019, at the age 86, after 16 years of mild cognitive impairment, dementia, and finally Alzheimer’s. It’s been almost 5 years. 4 Father’s Days.
Like me, Dad was a perfectionist. Unlike me, he was very neat and tidy. His desk and filing system were always organized with precision, so that he could find everything he needed. Much of his work depended on researching, writing, and delivering presentations. He would tell me stories of business when he’d tuck me in at night as a child. I don’t remember any of the stories, but I do remember the values he tried to instill in me regarding creative work.
If You Create Something, Be Proud To Sign Your Name To It.
I never understood this growing up. I figured either I’d be the author of a novel, or I’d toil in obscurity with my legal and technical writing. When I started writing gay fiction, I considered using a pseudonym. I am lucky enough in the country I live, the society I inhabit, and the people I know to be out of the closet. So I signed my first novel, Bear Like Me, Jonathan Cohen. And now I sign my next novel, Talio’s Codex, J. Alexander Cohen. I’m proud of them, and I want people to know I’ve written them (and to those who cannot sign their names because of prejudice or fear: someday, someday. I hope.).
Organization Will Save You a Great Deal of Time.
Going through Dad’s old papers I found printout after printout where Dad meticulously listed the steps to use Outlook Express or sign into the Family Tree Maker Web site. My living quarters and financial records may be a mess, but my emails, files, documents and everything pertaining to writing is in perfect order, thanks to his example.
Lay Out Your Tools Before You Start.
This is a corollary of the previous rule – getting ready to create.
Whether Dad was repairing something, making a Caesar salad, or preparing to grill on the BBQ, he would always set out tools and materials with precision. That way he had everything at hand, he knew what he was working with. There were no surprises, and no fumbling for things last-minute. I’m an outliner by nature, and looking over my notes (230,000 words alone planning Talio’s Codex!), I see the benefits.
It’s Not Done Till It’s Done.
No matter how long you’ve spent on your writing, it’s not finished until you get that feeling in your gut that it’s done. Done to the point of sending it out into the world. Nothing’s perfect, but your writing should be as good as you can make it.
It’s Worth Going Back if You Forget The Vital Ingredient.
Dad was fond of Gulden’s mustard on his pastrami sandwiches. No plain yellow or French’s mustard for him. When we would go camping, Mom and Dad packed provisions for a roadside lunch. And then came that terrible lunch when they forgot the Gulden’s mustard…
Dad wanted to go home. Mom threatened divorce. We kids thought it was hilarious. Dad was seriously considering going home – an hour away by now at least – to get that Gulden’s mustard. I believe that every creative work has to have some spark, some vital ingredient that sets it aside from the rest. Call it the Gulden’s of my writing: a legal thriller that’s also a fantasy, or using flowers to conduct enchanted energies and bring magic back to the world. Without that vital ingredient that is fundamentally yours, the work will taste bland.
(As I recall, he did not go back. That time.)
Don’t Write About Your Friends.
When I was a kid, Dad was driving me somewhere, and I read him my latest story. He looked at me in confusion, and said, “You know, this sounds like you’ve written a lot of in-jokes about your friends.” I nodded. “Don’t do that,” he said. “Nobody else will understand what you mean.”
In fiction, you have to understand what your readers will know…and what you need to tell them. In-jokes are fine (I always put in Easter eggs that nobody else will get), but refer to something the reader has no connection to, and you’ve lost them.
And when in doubt, as my publisher has taught me, err on the side of inclusion. Even if you end up adding another 64 pages to your manuscript.
No writing about friends, then. But hi, David!
Always Leave a Typo In.
This is one rule I have never followed. Back in the days of steno pools, secretaries and typewriters, Dad would leave a typo in a report or presentation, so that his boss (and they were always male bosses, of course) could ‘find’ it, correct, and feel that they’d improved the work. That way, the boss wouldn’t feel the need to change substantive things. With spell-checkers, there’s no need for this kind of subterfuge. That said, this rule did prove Dad was fine with a minor error or two creeping into his work now and then. He was a perfectionist…but also a realist.
Dad never sat down and told me these rules, but he’d read my writing and point out where he thought it could be improved. It was up to me to tease out the general principles – principles he lived by in his own work and his own life.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.