Not long ago I was seated in the Rider’s Inn located in Painesville, Ohio. This country Inn served as a model for my novel. I was visiting with a friend when a total stranger interrupted us and asked, “Excuse me, but are you the guy who wrote the novel “Faces?”
It was an overwelming experience in that she was a total stranger who had sought for a copy for a long time. I gave her a press release only because I had sold or given away all the copies I had. If I had the time, I might have shared with her the following account of the origin of this book.
This project began over twenty years ago when I became interested in restoring antique furniture and doing woodworking. At that time I learned that there were two kinds of furniture: handmade and manufactured. The old handmade pieces had tool marks everywhere. When I examined them carefully, I could feel the presence of the craftsman. Each saw cut or chisel mark brought his handwork to life right before my eyes.
So, being a literary person, I wrote an essay entitled ‘The Future of A Handmade Cabinet.” The thesis was simple. Handmade cabinets seem crude to the uninformed, but precious to the devotee. The discussion at Reed’s Inn came directly from this essay.
As for the rest of the story, the Lakeview School Fire was never the main subject of this novel. But the timeless struggle between entrophy and evolution was always the subject. Every day our bodies are being destroyed and reborn. Every day we are driven to extend our lives another day, another year, another decade. The castatrophic events, such as theLakeview School fire of 1908, fit into this story like a glove. Death by fire frightens all of us. But we cannot let such fears drag history down. We must move on.
Most of the writing on the Lakeview School focuses on the horror of the moment. I wanted to examine the consciousness of the survivors. I just thought the horror was overdone on this subject. So from there the plot kind of fell together. While writing, I remembered a phrase from some mediaeval writer that warned of “our little sister Death.” I remember it from years ago. It showed up in Faulkner’s writing, which I have always loved. It implies that we all have a constant awareness of our own death.
Entrophy, this sense of death rightly understood, makes us become responsible for the moment. It teaches us how to love children, animals, flowers, life, and oddly enough, handmade cabinets which frequently get burned up because people do not understand them. Fire should not be aimed at tormenting us. That is a sickness. Fire is our constant reminder, our teacher. Its powerful functions must be respected.
That’s the story of my novel in a very compact nutshell.
