My Grandfather Was A Famous Novelist

I discovered the secret to his success

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 just 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 was able to write quickly once I did, but I struggled to come up with good ideas. Too many of my ideas were pedestrian or derivative, so I struggled as a novelist.

When Grandpa passed, my father and mother 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, we had the house cleared out. 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 Grandpa wrote his first novel on 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 the old beat-up wooden desk my Grandpa used. I hoped that 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 good idea for a new novel.

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 opened it and saw 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 the 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 now.

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.