I heard Ram Dass on the radio telling a story about a Chinese farmer who is too old to work in the fields any more. He sits on the porch watching his children tend to the crops.
One day, his eldest son lugs a wooden box to the porch. “We’ve got too many mouths to feed,” the son says. “Get in the box.”
The old man gets in. The son puts a lid on the box and drags it toward the cliff at the edge of the farm.
He hears a knocking from inside the box. Takes off the lid.
His father sits up. “Son, I know what you’re doing and why, but might I suggest that you lift me out of the box and throw me over the cliff. That way, the box will be there when your children need it.”
That’s not quite the theme of my upcoming novel, an assisted-suicide family thriller called Why I Killed My Father, but it’s in the same universe. Without intending to, I’m now knee deep in writing about death and dying.
A few alarmed friends have reached out and asked if I’m OK. I am. Yes, I am going to die just like everyone else, but I’m healthy and active now and I’m hoping for several decades more. But I have been devoting far more of my energy to thinking and talking and reporting about death, and it’s not as morbid as I might have expected. I know it’s a cliché, but it’s true. Being more aware of death — our own as well as others — can make life more meaningful and precious.
That said, I know that many people are not necessarily waiting in line to talk about death, let alone read a novel about death. One friend, upon hearing what I am working on, said, “I’ll pass and wait on your next effort.”
I was disappointed to hear that, but I get it. Which is why I’ve worked hard to make this book as entertaining as possible. I call it a “page-turner with a conscience” — it moves like a thriller, but without explosions. Well, I guess there are explosions of a sort.
If all goes well, the book will be out this fall. You can read Chapter 1 here.
(I’m seeking a few more beta readers. Let me know if you’re interested.)
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