IN SEARCH OF EXPOSURE
Not long after Prince Charles and Diana walked down the middle aisle, I also became married. Charles and Diana were supposed to be the fairytale. They were supposed to be the couple that people could say, “And they all lived happily thereafter.”
It didn’t work out that way.
There are certain moments in your life that stand out. I am not talking about private tragedies or triumphs, but refer instead to public events. I remember as a young boy being called to an assembly at San Antonio Elementary School in Sunnyvale, California and hearing the principal gravely announce that, “President Kennedy is dead.” It didn’t matter that my mother and father had been ardent Nixon supporters. My stomach felt as if the school bully had done a job on it.
The deaths of Martin Luther King Jr., and Bobby Kennedy were also hard to accept, and as a young man I grieved along with the rest of a nation. There were highs along with the lows. I remember being allowed to stay up very late, so as to see Neil Armstrong step on the moon. No world event before or after has excited me so much. Years later, when the Challenger went down, I felt the exact opposite as I had during the moonwalk. In some ways I think the destruction of the Challenger was the end of my innocence. My heroes didn’t always win. I also felt awful when the Columbia didn’t make it home, but I wasn’t as vulnerable as I had been with the Challenger. Like a boxer who has taken a fall, I no longer believed in an aura of invincibility.
The events of September 11, 2001 also struck home hard. My brother and his family live and work in Manhattan. He works in finance, and was a frequent visitor to the Twin Towers. My family called his work and home number all day, and at last we learned he was well. For too many others that wasn’t the case.
In my lifetime I have been shaken by strong earthquakes, and been witness to fires raging nearby. When nature talks, you listen.
I wouldn’t have expected Princess Diana’s death to strike me like it did. She was no Mother Theresa or Winston Churchill or Jackie Robinson. Still, maybe because she was married when I was, or maybe because she was so beautiful and yet for much of her life seemed so sad, I was saddened by her death.
Much of my writing is prompted by my asking myself the question, “What if?” It is a game I always play. Sometimes I see people walking on the street, and something about them makes me ask, “What if?” I hear about certain situations, and I like to tweak them in my mind and ask my favorite question of, “What if?”
And so when Princess Diana died, I asked my question.
Before it was discovered that the limo driver was legally intoxicated and had mixed alcohol with antidepressants to boot, the paparazzi chasing after Di’s car were vilified. They were called packs of wolves, and much worse. The headlines said that Diana was “Chased to Death.” Never popular before, paparazzi became the scourge of the planet. Every celebrity seemed to come out with a public near death experience caused by paparazzi. The finger pointing abated somewhat when the facts of the situation came out, but one thing remained apparent: no paparazzo was ever going to win a popularity contest.
One of the mysteries surrounding Diana’s death was the collision the limo incurred just before entering the Alma Tunnel. Paint evidence and debris showed that the limo struck a white Fiat Uno at the entrance of the tunnel. When the driver of the Fiat Uno never came forward, what followed was the biggest car hunt in history. Despite all their efforts, French authorities never found the driver or the car.
And I wondered, “What if?”
What if the driver was a paparazzo? What if he had inside information as to where Di and Dodi were headed? What if he was partially to blame for the accident?
The French have a “Good Samaritan” law. Merely by fleeing the scene of the accident the other driver was liable.
I remember my feeling of intense excitement at this notion. I had a perfect start to a story. There was the hunt, the tragic accident, and the aftermath. It was an ideal way to jump into a novel.
I turned my own camera on the paparazzi. I spent some time with that elusive breed, gathered my notes, and I wrote my novel. I also learned about the hidden world of the Mensur – German dueling fraternities. Aided by a veteran of seven Mensur matches, I was allowed insights into a fascinating practice. I learned about swords and dueling.
To my mind, I had the perfect stew. I was sure this would be my breakout book. Everything was in it: action, history, romance, tricky plot. My wonderful literary agent Cynthia Manson sent the book out, and was as excited as I was. Multiple submissions went out to all the big houses. Imagine my surprise when I learned that there was still a taboo in New York publishing. For once all the editors agreed on one thing: they loved the book, but one thing had to go – Princess Diana and everything related to her.
My initial reaction was to refuse. I loved the opening of the book and didn’t want to tamper in any way with the redemptive path of my protagonist. For weeks I deliberated on whether I should just get on with another book, or do as New York demanded.
Ultimately I capitulated. I had worked on the novel for two years and decided to swallow my pride and make the changes. In the end I was very proud of the finished product. In some ways, aided by suggestions of my editor Kelley Ragland, I even managed to improve upon the original.
Still, one day it would be nice to see the book printed as I originally wrote it. Then again, maybe not. The book received wonderful reviews. Alas though, it was not my “breakout” novel. That carrot is still in front of my nose, and like a dutiful beast of burden I keep moving around in circles.
One day I will break that damn yoke.
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