My Grandfather Was A Famous Novelist

A Bad Library • The Little-Known Story Of Ben Franklin's Youth

One Minute Wit

A Bad Library

Oliver Hae

If you ever go to a library and they say,

“We are all out of books, but we can burn some words right onto your retinas.”

Don’t do it.

Go somewhere else.

Historical Oddities

The Little-Known Story Of Ben Franklin’s Youth

Ben Franklin (center) The Printer. Public Domain

Benjamin Franklin’s older brother James started the first newspaper in Boston. Benjamin, who was 15 at the time, apprenticed under him.

James soon grew to resent Ben because he got a lot of attention for writing fake letters to his newspaper, posing as an old woman. So James began beating Ben.

Ben didn’t appreciate being beaten, so he ran away. Which was illegal at the time.

In order to disguise himself for the getaway, Ben invented the mullet haircut and bi-focal glasses.

He fled to New York, thinking if he could make it there, he could make it anywhere. He failed.

Ben eventually ended up in Philadelphia, living with the Read family. One of the Read daughters, Deborah, pursued Ben for marriage. Ben considered himself too young for marriage and left for London to buy fonts and printing equipment.

Deborah married another fella while Ben was gone. Her new husband promptly ran away.

When Ben came back to the Colonies, he married Deborah. Seeing how she was free again after her first husband ran away (apparently, Deborah had a thing for runaways.)

Newly married and needing money, Ben opened a print shop, a general store, and a bookstore.

He did other stuff also as he got older. But older people aren’t very interesting, so I won’t bore you with those stories.

Fiction

My Grandfather Was A Famous Novelist

I discovered the secret to his success

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My Grandfather was a famous novelist. And my hero.

Grandpa had the enviable ability to produce three novels per year. His publisher loved him, as did his fans. People often asked him how he was able to write so consistently. His standard response was, “Writing is actually quite easy. It is ideas that are hard. Once I have an idea for a book, the writing flows. Fortunately, I have been blessed with plenty of good ideas.”

He made it sound easy, but where did his ideas come from? Why did he have such a fantastic imagination?

My imagination was not so cooperative. I got the occasional good idea and could write quickly once I did, but they were rare. Too many of my story ideas were pedestrian or derivative, so I had little success as a novelist.

When Grandpa passed, my parents and I had the task of cleaning out his house and preparing it for sale. It was a significant endeavor. It seemed like every wall was lined with books. I often wonder how Grandpa had time to read and still write so prolifically.

After a good month of attacking the task, all that was left was the attic. Fortunately, there wasn’t much up there, just some Christmas decorations, a few boxes of correspondence that Grandpa had saved over the years, and an old wooden desk. My father said the desk was the desk where my Grandpa wrote his first novel when my father was just a toddler. Grandpa kept it for sentimental reasons. I asked my father if I could have it. He said, “Sure, you will be doing me a favor, getting rid of it.”

That weekend, a friend and I loaded the desk into his pickup truck and brought it to my house. I replaced my sleek modern desk with my Grandpa’s old beat-up wooden desk. I hoped it would bring me some of that writing magic my Grandfather used to have.

That evening I sat down at the desk. I ran my hands along the worn-smooth surface. I imagined Grandpa hacking away at a typewriter, happily churning out his latest fan-pleasing novel. I waited for the desk to transfer its magic to me. It didn’t. I still didn’t have a decent idea for a new story.

Out of frustration, I began opening the drawers on the desk. One had pencils in it. Another had a photo of my late Grandmother. When I got to the bottom drawer, I found a small book tucked in the back. I pulled it out.

The book was a plain, ordinary-looking notebook. It had to be 50 years old. On the cover, my Grandfather had written Ideas. My heart started beating. Could this be a log of all of Grandpa’s ideas? Perhaps there were some in it that he hadn’t used yet. I had reached a point of desperation in my writing career where I would have gladly used my Grandfather’s ideas. It was not like he was going to use them.

I opened the book, and it was blank. I flipped through every page. All blank. Why would he keep a blank notebook for so long? And why write Ideas on the cover?

I let my head fall onto the open notebook. Instantly, I got an idea — a great idea for a novel. I jerked my head up. I grabbed my phone and dictated the idea into a note app.

I picked up the book and placed the open pages against my forehead. I immediately got another great idea for a story. I shook my head.

I tried it several more times, and each time I got another excellent story idea. Grandpa, you old sly fox, I thought.

Suddenly, I had the feeling I just might match Grandpa’s career as a novelist.

Happy Monday. Thanks for reading and responding. You make it fun.

Mark

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Monday Morning Mark • 142