Anatomy of a First-Time Novelist

Peter Booth, Copyright 2001

"Humble in Victory" is a fictional tale of U.S. Navy Indian Ocean combat in the year 2010. The centerpiece of a massive naval build-up in the region is the aircraft carrier USS Ronald Reagan and one of its embarked F-27C stealth Phantom III fighter squadrons, the Red Rippers. The catalyst for this concentration of U.S. sea power is the aggressiveness of a powerful military alliance of Iran, Saudi Arabia and Iraq in a quest to control the riches of the vast Caspian Sea oil reserves. Compounding the strategic impasse is the emergence of an oil-dependent China as a true military super power, a Washington leadership cowering from a fight, the influence of Chinese money deep into the body politic, hometown spouses left to fend and a gender-equal Navy struggling to hone its combat edge after almost nine arduous months at sea. This tale of what might become a few years from now, is totally in the mind of the author. Aside from a handful of well-known luminaries, all characters are fictional.

So goes the forward to Humble in Victory. Behind those simple words though, lurks a story of what motivates an ordinary person to subject himself to the misery, time, frustration and expense of writing the epic novel? In my case, like many others, I harbored some personal concerns and reservations in a few areas including the proliferation of arms throughout the world, the emergence of China as a budding superpower, politicians driven like bees to honey to the almighty dollar, weak national leadership, the constant quest for oil and finally, the rush of the military’s civilian leaders to put women into every combat role they could get away with

Early in 1998, I had written a thoughtful piece for the Naval Institute Proceedings magazine with the catchy title of "Combat Duty is Different" which had as its centerpiece that women should not to be thrust into clear combat billets for two reasons: One was the moral argument that men should fight our wars and not women; and secondly, the extremely sensitive subject of men and women serving shoulder to shoulder on board ships and in the foxholes for 24 hours a day, 7 days a week and for months and months on end. Good news, bad news: Accepted for publication, it never saw the light of day in the Proceedings.

A few months later, while visiting my wife Carolyn’s mother in Tennessee, I chanced upon a long piece in the Memphis Sunday paper on the subject of Caspian Sea oil — reputedly the largest in the world. It was clear that this historic region could well be the next Persian Gulf and the countries surrounding it, the future Saudi Arabia and Iraq of the oil-producing world in the coming decade. The more research I did and the deeper I dug, it also became clear that China needed access to such reserves and, not incidentally, was on a most impressive military modernization effort. As my imagination wandered, another prominent national issue was percolating — that being the influence of massive dollars flowing into the political psyche not the least of which were the clandestine amounts from China and the almost desperate willingness of many politicians to reach for the gold, no matter the source or degree of "shadiness." Also by the late’90s, I found I enjoyed writing and putting my thoughts on paper and indeed, had written a bunch of non-descript articles, one folksy auto biography of my Navy experiences and a ton of gratuitous pieces that no one cared about. But, I liked to write.

So, one day about two years ago, I sat down and started what I referred to in its infancy as the "epic novel" without the slightest notion of where it was going, the characters, the plot (s) or how it might end — not even a back of the envelope outline. But, I did know that the tale would take place in the year 2010 because it was to be simply a straight-line extrapolation of actual events and trends in the 1990s. Two examples: First was the rather arcane subject of the influence of money on our political landscape which some may opine to have gone out of control in recent years. Would the trends have continued, one would not recognize the political landscape of 2010. Humble in Victory — though apolitical in the extreme — reluctantly accepts the obscene trend and mixes it in with missing nuclear weapons, big bucks and a dash of interior China. Another extrapolation assumption is the degree to which women constitute our combatant forces, case in point in the late 1990s, the 600 or so females deployed on aircraft carriers, and attempts at the highest levels of the Navy to mix the sexes on board submarines. Do you wonder what the author conjured up in his vision of a 2010 US Navy? All fiction, of course, and all totally in the unconstrained mind of the author.

Down the hall in our Pensacola condominium, we had a modest storage area about the size of a captain’s sea cabin aboard ship. I made it my temporary headquarters where great strategic thoughts would nurture and grow. Instead of its previous name — the hole — I named it the "sea cabin." On the wall I pinned a large map covering the Eastern Mediterranean across the Middle East and onto Western China. My mind would wander in my humble womb. What would China be like in 2010? Would the campaign feeding frenzy accelerate even more? What would a combat US Navy look like? What would happen to the Caspian Sea oil riches? And how would the almost unconstrained influx of women into the military impact upon a combat Navy that might be forced into extremely long periods at sea with little or no port calls and so far from home base? I started the first few chapters with what I knew the most about — Navy fighter squadrons and aircraft carriers. Along the way, I made some assumptions regarding airwing composition, the aircraft type, crew living arrangements, tactics and so on. The operative word here is assumption which I based upon the dynamics of a straight-line extrapolation, the early results of which reflected an aircraft carrier named the USS William J. Clinton with its crew of 5,000 dedicated, hard working and sacrificing men and women — out of its homeport for almost nine months — but also a social-milieu assumption based upon the same straight line of actual events in the mid- to late 1990s.

The tale then wound itself into a Chinese stealth fighter squadron attempting to surviel the speeding carrier in the Indian Ocean, to the Navy’s underground command center below the Pentagon and the hometown folks in Virginia Beach left to fend in an uncertain world. The rest, the reader needs to read for it is impossible to weave the tale in a few short words. While the core plot involves the proud carrier and its embarked fighter squadron, the Red Rippers, it too spikes out to interior China, a secret base in the high desert of NE Iran abutting Afghanistan, direct to the national command authority in Washington and a few necessary digressions into hometown USA.

The early drafts were consistent in several regards, most notable of which was the eye-watering dedication, sacrifice and courage of the crew on the deckplates and cockpits of the carrier. A few of these incredible characters — montaged out of many of the true heroes I’ve served with over the years — were Commander Wendy "Iron Lady" Montrose, the Red Ripper skipper; Ensign Patty Butts, the squadron’s intelligence officer; Master Chief Randy McCormick, the maintenance chief; Lieutenant Becky "Big Sister" Turner, the squared-away fighter pilot whose job it was to ". . . put iron bombs on dumb targets;" Vice Admiral Stan Sarodsy, the Navy’s combat arms VP in the Pentagon; and the incorrigible acting Red Ripper exec, Lieutenant Commander Dave "Blues" Anderson, not only a top pilot, but to some, perpetually in heat. Even Major Ying Tsunami of the Imperial Chinese Air Force and stealth squadron CO, manages a few days on the carrier after a harrowing rescue by the US Navy in the mountains of southern Pakistan. Though, I love most of my characters, there are a few, of necessity, who are genuine bad guys and totally beyond the pale including, but not limited to, Virginia Roberts Stallingsworth, the nation’s incumbent president. One by one the chapters evolved in my totally incoherent scrawl. After each one, I had to conceptualize the next, for generally, I had no idea where the tale would meander.

Whenever we traveled, I took a few notebooks — the mountains of Cashiers; Beijing China; the "farm" in Tennessee; and a spare bedroom with our daughters in Atlanta. As the tale matured and came to life and finally ended 460 pages and 30 chapters later, it was with great anticipation that I printed it out on my Brother 1240 laser printer, took it to Kinko’s for spiral bounding and brought home three monster copies. One went posthaste to Tom Cutler of the Naval Institute Press; one to a younger, Naval Academy graduate and local Pensacola attorney, Richard Jesmonth; and the third to a retired Rear Admiral of considerable intellect and an avid reader, who prefers to remain anonymous. (I could offer a clue or two, but….)

With fingers crossed early in 2000, I awaited the glowing results. SLAM! . . . DUNK! The comments trickled in. Good story, but . . . I almost quit! My three friends wanted to be nice and say all the comforting words, but I am grateful that they did just the opposite, hence the "slam . . . dunk." Rather than spell defeat, the comments were encouraging and galvanized me to new efforts that I thought would take but a few weeks. Dead wrong again! Example: Tom Cutler of the Naval Institute said my dialogue was terrible and that it would help me if I read one or more of Herman Wouk’s works. Deep within a dusty shelf, I pulled out Majorie Morningstar and devoured it — how different his treatment of dialogue was from mine! He also reflected the impressions of my other reviewers that the tale was too polemic — far too political and judgmental on the part of the author. In retrospect, I am now on record as being embarrassed at foisting such a crummy draft on my friends. One even objected to some of my social notions about life on the carrier and even the carrier’s name in that it could never be built in such a short time frame. Nonetheless — and this is important to the tale’s evolution — the three gave me the nudge I needed to press on

The title at the time was "Real Sailors Don’t Hold Hands," a Pete Booth variant of a phrase one of my boatswain’s mates aboard my first destroyer used on occasion when I asked for coffee on a cold, dark Pacific Ocean mid-watch, "Mr. Booth, real sailors don’t use cream and sugar." The conceptual cover sported male and female pilots striding purposefully to their deadly stealth fighter on the flight deck, much like the cover of a year 2000 Proceedings. Problem was that no one liked it except me. Two title alternatives caught my eye: "The Creed," from the Navy Flyer’s Creed; and "Extrapolate" from the obvious assumptions of the tale. They didn’t last either.

In between these early initial drafts and what turned out to be close to the final was a frustrating year of studying, editing, proofing, rewriting and getting opinions from a cross-section of a few folks. I also took a night course at the local Pensacola Junior College for about 12 sessions with one other younger man and ten or so ladies, all of whom had a real desire to write their own epic novel. It was truly an eclectic gathering and a fun group. The teacher was an energetic "englishy" younger lady who talked of outlines, character development, syntax, planning, organization and protagonists. Wow! Was I ever out to lunch — I hadn’t done any of those essential aspects. Nonetheless, the interactions and the ideas it spawned were worthwhile including those of one of my fellow students who did read an earlier version and was kind in her suggestions.

Prompted by this rather elementary course, I checked out of the local library an old James Michener novel I had read many years before, The Author. It reinforced my frustration at getting "closure" on my effort in that it chronicled the progress of one of his novels from the perspective of the author, the editor, the publisher and the critic most all of whom were mutually exclusive of one another’s opinion. I not only read it, but reread it.

The months passed in and about Pensacola in what I describe to some envious outsiders as "life in the fast lane:" Modest volunteer work on a few fronts; travel here and about; flying little airplane; working out; offering gratuitous advice; visiting kids and so on. Throughout all this frantic old-guy activity, the epic novel kept itself on the front burner and I would feel guilty if it were ignored. One day I was going over a later chapter in which a young American Airlines copilot, former naval aviator and stealth reserve pilot, was called to active duty as a pilot with the Red Rippers on board the Indian Ocean carrier — now morphed into the more appropriate USS Ronald Reagan. From the time of her notification in a plush Paris hotel room to ready room number one on board the carrier in the Indian Ocean, less than 72 hours elapsed. Distraught at the severe disruption in her life, she seeks comfort in an old naval aviation homily, The Navy Flier’s Creed. One line in this simplistic World War II recitation reads, "I shall be humble in victory." Bingo, the title henceforth would be, "Humble in Victory." It felt good and I felt good, for it was a perfect fit.

In between constant edits, changes, hyphens, spelling, smoothing, punctuation, getting my Mac computer to properly justify the text, make the pages compatible to an 8.5 x 5.5 trade paperback and figure out how to get the inverted "v" and backwards slash in "tête à tête, I worried over the cover. I wanted to take pictures of volunteer "real" male and female naval aviators in full flight regalia — like the cover of the Proceedings article — at the local Naval Air Station, but was denied by the system in Washington. "No way without my personally reading the manuscript," the nice Pentagon public relations rear admiral told me. Then, like much of the tale’s meandering evolution, a light went on. It was a sunny day in Pensacola, so I broke out my old Nikon 35 mm camera and layered the following on a living room chair doused in afternoon-filtered sunlight: An American flag; my Dad’s old Navy silk flying scarf; a blue and gold model of a Blue Angel jet; my final pilot’s hardhat; a crewel embroidery of Navy pilot wings done years ago by Carolyn; and the ridiculous logo of the Red Ripper fighter squadron replete with ugly boar’s head, role of baloney, backwards lightening bolt and two red balls. A series of random placements and a couple of rolls of film resulted in the final cover. Because the cover reflects the color of patriotism, courage and sacrifice, the title could have eased seamlessly to "Duty, Honor, Country," for indeed, this is the thrust of the final rendition.

"Finally," I proclaimed to myself, "it’s finished." With great hope I sent the massively restructured manuscript to my editorial friend in Annapolis who had agreed to reread it. Concurrently, I finalized my publishing options most of which I had become quite familiar with including electronic publishing. The traditional path of agent, publisher, editor, and so on, I had rejected two years ago under the premise I was too old, too grizzled, too set in my ways and far too obstreperous to go through the trauma and uncertainties of that route. While awaiting the long-shot missive from Tom Cutler, I became acquainted with an energetic lady in Pensacola who produced a monthly "neighborhood" free newspaper under the auspices of her Dockside Publications. She had also published a cute paperback by a local author titled, Why Manatees Swim Naked. Lyn Zittel and I got to talking. I liked her professional, thorough approach, but her cost for a small initial printing was too high. She came down and I came up. Smart move, Booth! As we were discussing our contract, she asked me if I would be interested in having her proof the manuscript as I was giving her "camera ready" material, including the cover. I indicated that it wasn’t necessary as it was essentially perfect. As we parted, she had a look that suggested I might reconsider. So, reluctantly, I agreed. Because Lyn was to be out of town, she in turn, handed the thick manuscript over to her friend, the aforementioned author of Manatees, Rebel Lowry Covan. Three proofers — Stacie Toups of nearby Milton in red; Rebel in black; and Lyn in green — made my "camera ready" manuscript look like a first grader’s coloring book. Grump, grump. Back to the Mac I went with a silent thanks to my eagle-eyed trio. A short digression: Lots of folks helped, advised, critiqued, lost sleep, corrected and provided encouragement. The "Thanks" page following the forward, does not do justice to these dozen or so friends who put brain to the manuscript and to whom, I am thankful and indebted.

With a triumphant grin, I left the box of completed manuscript with Lyn. Soon thereafter, after my twice-per-week racquetball game, I came home to the crumbling of the World Trade Center and a giant hole in the E-ring of the Pentagon dead center in the area in which my Navy office in the outer "E" ring twenty years ago used to be. The black-bordered "special dedication" inserted just before Chapter One reflects the emotion of that horrible day.

The economics of the first-time novelist seem to be a seldom-discussed matter. Without specificity, I would suggest, that the first few hundred copies of this epic novel are loss leaders in the truest sense of the word and would warrant an extremely low grade in business 101. Would I write another novel? I’m not sure. The sequel is there just waiting to be picked, the characters morphing into another unknown future — 2020? Writing is tough and takes sizeable doses of constant discipline to overcome the natural inertia of having more fun doing something else. But, for what it’s worth, I feel good for having done it. I wanted to paint a totally hypothesized — extrapolate again — series of situations that may indeed come to pass a decade or so hence.

One incredibly sad thought: Our world, our nation, our Navy will never be the same again after what happened on 11 September, 2001.

PBB Pensacola, Florida October, 2001