My newest novel, Summer of
’69 is set 50 years ago, and -- despite being labelled a novel -- is almost
entirely autobiographical account of that trippy summer revolving around Led
Zeppelin, Free Love, the first manned moon landing, a cornucopia of illegal
substances, Vietnam, and Woodstock. In the first chapter, that’s me in a
somewhat “compromised” state at the wheel of my psychedelically-painted
microbus driving down the Mass Pike. That was at the beginning of the summer ,
and things would only get weirder from there, ending with the Woodstock music
festival and a funeral for someone dear to me who died much too young.
Writing
Summer of ’69 was quite possibly the most profound creative experience of my
life. It’s a book I never imagined
penning. And were it not for an extraordinary editor, Kaylan Adair, and an
equally extraordinary publishing house, Candlewick, I wonder if this novel ever
would have seen ink on a printed page.
Not only did
Kaylan compose several long and insightful single-spaced editorial letters, but
during the three years in which this book came to life, she and I exchanged
nearly 500 emails shaping it. As a result of her steady but gentle coaxing I’ve
written about painful memories and experiences that I’d never expected or
imagined I would ever want to confront or reveal.
There came a
moment somewhere near the end of the project, or perhaps just after I finished,
when I experienced a sensation unlike any I have ever felt upon completing a
novel. It was akin to a sense of closure, of clearing the air, of tying up
loose ends -- not regarding a single book, but pertaining to a life-long
mission that I’m not even sure I was aware I’d been on. At least not until the
moment I felt it. It felt as if I’d not just told another story, but had
finally told The Story. The one that had always been deep inside, the one that
may have been part of the motivation for why I became a writer in the first
place.
Ironically,
when we (because as I said, it couldn’t have happened without Kaylan) finally
got to the end, I discovered that it wasn’t nearly as painful as I’d
feared/imagined. Instead, it felt like a huge relief. As I said earlier, it
felt like closure. As if unresolved issues that I’d avoided thinking about for
the past 50 years took a huge step toward getting sorted out. There are some
books one writes for an audience (ie., to save others' lives), and some written
to exorcise demons (to save our own lives).
This is the one I wrote for myself. I hope you'll read it and enjoy it.
