Patrick Beacham

Patrick Beacham

 

Biographies can take many forms.

 

There is the one that starts: “Born in…”

 

There is also the one that states: “In 1995, he won the Nobel Prize in Literature…”

 

Then there is the resume, which is also a form of biography, and one we’ve all been compelled to write, revise and submit time and again.

 

Here, in brief, is my literary resume:

 

(Please note that I decline to give my year of birth or claim that I have won the Nobel Prize.)

 

I have written four novels: “The Things That Are Thor’s” (for which I also wrote, produced and directed a promotional video); “Finding Shamoo” (available on Amazon.com); and, “Slow Learner,” also here on Amazon. In addition, the last two books are “lavishly illustrated,” (a descriptive phrase I’ve always hoped I could use). Also, I have just published “Pagan Worship,” which concerns Donald Trump, and which will be followed very shortly by an audiobook version of the novel.

 

Too many short stories to mention, of course.

 

Two screenplays: “The Audience Strikes Back”; and “Eurydice.”

 

And outside the strictly literary sphere, a full-length feature film based on the first of the two screenplays, which I directed.

 

The following brief excerpt from “Finding Shamoo” is not part of my resume, as such, but will tell you a great deal more about me as a writer than any recitation of dry facts in a resume.

 

When I set to work on “Fathers and Sons,” I had no expectation that it would ever be read, let alone praised or published – and it never was. The only reason I wanted to write was because I wanted to write; this, then, was my sublime, belated, somewhat bitter discovery: I was a writer. I may not have been the same gifted writer I believed myself to be in Miss Nevcy’s 9th grade creative writing class. I may not have been as good, or even nearly as good, as all the published (and much younger) writers who were born long after me. I may never have attended a writer’s workshop in Big Sur or at some prestigious temple of learning draped with ivy or cornhusks, been invited to speak at the 92nd or any other Street Y, enjoyed the honor of being short- or even long-listed for one of the many – rather too many – celebrated or even not so celebrated literary awards, received, in all humility, a fellowship or genius grant – but I was a writer.

 

Easy then: take out the praise, take out the fame, take out the sex, take out any possible remuneration, even remove Heather from the equation – the only thing left is that same fourth grader compelled to write about dinosaurs and bad guys so very long ago.