I wrote an entire book in 40 days. Yes, just 40 days; I thought it was pretty impressive too. It was 130,000 words, super funny (in my opinion anyway), and it had a beginning and an end, resulting in what I assumed was a best seller. The book was titled Cadet Blues, and after 40 days all that was left to do was edit it (essentially make sure each sentence began with a capital letter and ended with a decimal point), then sell that sucker and make millions of dollars. I would spend the rest of my life enjoying the residual checks after the movie rights were sold and Channing Tatum was cast to play me, since I was the main character in the book. Yes, me and Channing get confused all the time. I’m confused as to why more people don’t mistake me for him, and he’s confused as to who I even am.
This was seven years ago. I am still waiting for those residual checks, and Channing hasn’t been cast to play me; in fact, nobody has because exactly nobody is trying to make my book into a movie. Why hasn’t this all come together by now? I blame my wife. You see, after I wrote the book, she refused to edit it for me, thus the book went nowhere (unless you consider rotting away on my hard drive as somewhere). I would have edited the book myself, but I’m the creative type, and I can’t be bothered with the dreadful details regarding where a comma goes. Those sorts of specifics bore me and get in the way of me telling hilarious stories. My wife is the comma cop in the family.
You see, my wife and I are a sort of dynamic duo when it comes to putting together this column. It isn’t obvious to the readers, since the columns here have my fat-faced picture on them, and the byline is Rob Krider. But the reality is I write the columns, and then she fixes them. If it wasn’t for Mrs. Krider, nobody would understand anything I am trying to say. Essentially, the rough draft of every column looks like it was written by a dyslexic 8-year-old whose first language was anything but English. It is Mrs. Krider who has to sift through the hieroglyphics, misplaced commas, the continual misunderstanding of the two words “your” or “you’re,” and way, way too many jokes about my phallus. (Editor’s Note: In 15 years of the Man Overboard column, no phallus jokes have ever made it into a story. The editorial staff at The Sun are the second safety net/insurance policy after his wife’s initial edit against Krider’s childish humor.)
Since I need my wife to edit my short stories, I really needed her to edit my long book. She refused based on the fact that reading a book written in 40 days by a dyslexic 8-year-old who loves bathroom humor would be a terrible experience. I begged her to edit the book. She wouldn’t do it. I asked her why, and all she would say is, “It’s not ready for me to look at yet.”
“What do you mean it’s not ready? I wrote a beginning; 130,000 words; and an end: What else is there to do?”
“You need to clean it up.”
“I don’t do ‘clean it up.’ I write literature gold that makes thousands of people laugh every other week.”
“If you think dumb fart jokes about you and your buddies is literature gold, then you definitely need to take a second look before I read it.”
“How do you know it isn’t ready when you haven’t bothered to read it?”
“Because I know you. And I know it’s not ready.”
She was impossible. Time went on, the book went nowhere. I started to blame my wife. I started to get bitter and angry. Instead of referring to her as my wife, whom I love, I considered referring to her as my ex-wife, whom I loathe. Every night we would lie in bed and she would be reading a book. She is an avid reader, young adult, horror, true crime—you name it, she will read anything. Except, she wouldn’t read my book, Cadet Blues. One day I snapped. I couldn’t help it and I told her my true feelings, on the front lawn in front of the neighbors and the poor mailman, who just happened to be driving by. She was walking toward her car to go to the store to buy us food instead of reading my book, so I gave it to her then and there.
“I’m angry with you, Honey!”—I slipped in the “Honey” to soften the blow.
“Why? What did I do?”
“BECAUSE YOU ARE MY WIFE, AND YOU WON’T READ MY BOOK, AND YOU SPEND TWO HOURS EVERY DAY READING EVERY BOOK EVER PUBLISHED EXCEPT MINE, YOUR OWN HUSBAND’S BOOK!!!”
She realized I had been pushed to the limit.
“Fine,” she said in a way that made me feel little for asking her, “I’ll read your book then.”
She read it and told me: “It’s not ready for me to edit it yet.” Ouch. So, reluctantly, I started to re-work the book and take out a lot of the phallus jokes (which, for the record, were hilarious). Eventually she saw me work on it enough that she finally edited it, telling me where to put all the commas, and she tried to explain the difference between “there,” “their,” and “they’re,” which still doesn’t make any sense to me. Seven years later—and after a lot of arguing about the words “lie,” “lay,” or “laid”—the book was published. It is hard for me to admit but … she was right. The final product was much better (some could use the term discernable) since she made me revise it and edit it. I’m very proud of how Cadet Blues turned out, regardless of its lack of phallic humor.
In six months every copy that was printed sold out. The second set came off the presses at the beginning of April and are for sale online in print (Amazon, Ebay or CadetBlues.com) or e-book (Kindle or Nook). I would like to publicly say thank you to my wife, whom I love, for making these bi-weekly columns readable and ultimately, for making Cadet Blues the success that it has become. I couldn’t have done any of it without her. Thank you, Baby. Does a comma go before Baby? Should Baby be capitalized? I honestly don’t know.
If you enjoy Rob’s storytelling check out his book “Cadet Blues” (written in 40 short days and edited over seven long years almost ruining his marriage) available on Amazon.com.
This article appears in Apr 9-16, 2015.