A stack of my manuscript pages for Isn’t It Pretty To Think So? and a pile of the newly published paperbacks!
Nick Miller
Hi, I'm Nick Miller. I like to write things.
My debut novel, Isn't It Pretty To Think So?, will be released in 2012.
You can pre-order a copy from Amazon now.
Follow @nickmiller
My debut novel, Isn't It Pretty To Think So?, will be released in 2012.
You can pre-order a copy from Amazon now.
Follow @nickmiller
Reblogged from fernandofrench|540 notes
The official dates are in! My novel will be released for Kindle on June 4th and in print on June 11th. Thank you, my Tumblr Family, for the wonderful support and encouragement you’ve given me over the last couple of years. What an incredible journey …
Twenty months ago, we asked Nick Miller to write a book.
His response: “Really?”
Yes, really.
Today, after twenty months of goading, prodding, and harrying, we are proud to announce the completion of Nick’s novel, Isn’t It Pretty To Think So?
The e-book will be available for the Kindle on June 4.
One week later, we will release the paperback.
Finally.
I received this in the mail today. After recovering from a momentary heart attack, I read the note taped to the front: “Congratulations on publishing your first novel. You now have 4 days to read through it for any errors. Then the book goes to the printer for the last time.” Wow. Thank you to everyone who has supported me during this long journey. I really couldn’t have gotten through this without you.
A family of four was having lunch at the far end of the courtyard; the two children played under the table in a shielded little world of make-believe, while their parents seemed concerned with much more solemn matters up above.
“You know,” I said to Henry, “every time I see a child playing, I have the same feeling—this warm, nostalgic sensation for the days when summers were magical and time itself seemed infinite. You remember that? I mean, as kids we could unlock a world of imagination simply by climbing a tree. We could fantasize about everything, imagine ourselves growing up and doing anything, because the possibilities were endless, you know? We were still young enough not to be laden with thoughts of doubt and meaninglessness. It just made more sense.”
“You speak fondly of childhood. I’ve also noticed it in your writing,” Henry said. “I hope you don’t let it tarnish your experiences in the present. Surely you remember the miserable times of childhood: the braces, the bullies, the heartbreak, the insecurities, the fear of darkness—”
City of Angels. City of Dreams. City of Lost Memories. City of Neon. That was it—the neon lights: manufactured color pouring down over the city, like acid rain, slowly eroding the souls of the city-dwelling youths, while poisoning their minds with an insatiable craving for manufactured highs. It was the lights. It had always been the lights.
- “Have you ever loved a girl?” she asked.
- “I don’t think so,” I said.
- “I was in love once... I didn’t think about anything else, and everything seemed to make sense for a while. Maybe you should try that.”
- “But let’s forget about love for a second. How about just a real fucking connection? I don’t like the idea of a world where people just worry about taking care of themselves. Sometimes I think I hate people—I really do—but I’m not ready to give up on them yet. I mean, there has to be something, right?”
- “Something…?”
- “I don’t know. Something that means something.”
“Jake, I want you to imagine a world where writing is a very uncool talent. Imagine that there’s very little money in it. Imagine that your parents will hate you for embracing it, that your friends will make fun of you, that no girl will be impressed by it. Imagine that you’ll never truly be fulfilled by anything that you write. Imagine a life stacked with frustrating days and lonely nights. Imagine a life of unrelenting criticism. And then imagine that after you finish writing something you’re proud of, no one will read it, but that if someone does happen to read it, he will hate it. Now…if you learned that all those conditions were part of the world you were currently living in, would you still believe that you were capable of rising from bed in the morning with the desire to write?”
As he stared at me earnestly, I dutifully imagined living in the world he’d described, looked at him in the eyes, and then answered him truthfully, “Yes.”
“
You’re very naive and fragile because you act as if you don’t believe in anything, as if you don’t care to believe in anything, but, really, all you want is to believe in something with all of your heart.
”
Parker and I are driving along Sunset with two girls. One of them is in the passenger seat next to Parker, and the other is in the backseat with me. We pass around a bottle of whiskey. Each of us takes a couple of swigs before passing it on. Also in the rotation is a bag of coke. The girl with me in the backseat offers to let me use her keys to dig it out.
“Put it all away,” Parker says, urgently.
I look up as the traffic slows. I notice the flash of red and blue lights ahead.
“It’s a checkpoint,” Parker says.
My girl has the whiskey in her hand. I have the bag of coke. I grab the bottle from her and hide it under the seat. I put the bag in my shoe. Parker’s girl in the front seat turns down the music. My girl straightens her posture.
“Turn the fucking music back up,” Parker says. “Everyone act normal. Don’t act guilty.”
She turns the music up. We bob our heads and fake laughter. I realize I’ve done too much cocaine. I begin repeatedly swallowing to prevent myself from gagging. Parker’s car inches forward in a long line of cars. I fear that I’ll ruin it all by gagging and vomiting in front of an officer. Four cars are in front of us. Then three. My throat closes around the back of my tongue. I start to gag. Two cars are in front of us. I reach down under the seat. I unscrew the bottle of whiskey and take a gulp. I hold some in my mouth so I can wet my throat again if I need to. One car in front of us. I put the bottle down under the seat as we pull up to an officer.
“How we doing tonight,” the officer says.
“Just fine, Officer,” Parker says.
“Where are we coming from?”
“Dinner with these beautiful girls,” Parker says.
“Anything to drink tonight,” the officer asks.
“Some wine with dinner,” Parker says.
Another officer approaches my back window with a flashlight. I swallow the rest of the whiskey in my mouth. He points his flashlight into my eyes, forcing me to squint. Then he moves the light down about my feet. My eyes nervously trace the path of his light. When I look up, the officer is looking directly at me. I hold my gaze on his until he turns around and walks toward another car.
“Carry on,” the officer at Parker’s window says.
At a safe distance away, Parker cheers and leans over to kiss his girl. Both of us in the backseat laugh at Parker who begins to lick his girl’s face in his exaltation.
“Jake Reed, hand me that fucking bottle of whiskey,” he says.
“Coming right up,” I say.
Chapters 1-3 of my novel Isn’t It Pretty To Think So? are now available for download here. I hope you enjoy. I truly appreciate all the wonderful support.
The airport wasn’t just clean, it was shiny, like the glass frame of my college diploma hanging on the wall in my mother’s living room or the wine glasses set around the table for my father’s dinner parties; shiny like the veneers on the housewives who lived in my childhood neighborhood or the Mercedes my bosses drove.
On that night, I would have been more comfortable in a dirty airport—a place where cancelled flights forced travelers to crowd together on the floor and use their luggage as pillows, their jackets as blankets; a place that pulsated through the entire night with the chatter of whiskey-drinking storytellers, all settling into the cozy dirtiness.
—An excerpt from my forthcoming novel Isn’t It Pretty To Think So? The first 40 pages have been uploaded here.
“I hate the taste of alcohol—beer, wine, whiskey, all of it,” he said to me once, a statement which bemused me initially because he was always drinking.
But there came a time when I understood that it was never about the actual act of consumption or the actual act of sex for Parker; rather, it was about doing what he could to keep the deadness alive within him. His pain didn’t thrive within the deadness, it prospered within the aliveness. It latched on to hope and ambition. It proliferated in love. It succeeded in passion and concern and enthusiasm. But, as Parker had discovered, his pain withered in apathy and detachment and indifference.
—An excerpt from my forthcoming novel Isn’t It Pretty To Think So? The first 40 pages have been uploaded here.
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