Pedro’s Pickles Unpacked
Who knows where story ideas originate? I don’t. Neither could Bob Dylan explain where the vivid lyrical imagery came from that he banged out on the tortured typewriter for his iconic song, “Don’t Worry Ma, I’m Only Bleeding.”
I have no idea what sparks or inspirations gave birth to the majority of the 91 literary short stories and book-length manuscripts that I either started or finished (mostly started). However, the original idea only stands out for two or three—the most recent being “Pedro’s Pickles and the American Dream.”
Although “Pedro’s” path became as twisted and convoluted as a cucumber or pickle vine, the initial sprout germinated on July 31, 2017, when I took my daughter on her first climb of the world-class rock climbing area along Washington State’s Skykomish River—the “Index Town Wall.” During that trip, perhaps it was the tired giddiness that comes after a successful climb. Maybe it was nervousness—for my daughter, from being her first real roped climb. For me, having constantly fretted over her safety prevented me from enjoying the moment as much—until we touched the ground. Regardless of its origin, we both found particular amusement over the Pickle Farm Road sign. “You don’t grow pickles,” we laughed, as we shared absurd pickle-growing whimsical fantasies.
Over the next two years, that pickle-induced moment stuck—and continues to provide me with a memorable father-daughter moment. From that happy place, I put fingers to typewriter (or rather keyboard), to see what my brain would skirt out. For the original version, I intended to merge my Pickle Farm Road whimsical idea, “Pedro and the Pickle Caper of Pittsylvania County,” with the lyrical flow of Mark Twain’s title, “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.”
Over time, changes came in fits-and-bits, over solitaire card games, while driving, or while lying awake in the wee hours of the morning. For an additional whimsical effect, the idea to set the story in rural West Texas came to me early one morning in an especially fitful ceiling-staring moment.
Eventually, I morphed the story into more-or-less the final version. However, beta reader confusion and editor advice forced me to change the title. It’s not a mystery, so readers attempting to discover the “caper,” only found confusion. Also, the many tongue-twisting alliterations conjured images of book genres other than the intended—adult literary fiction. Therefore, I changed “Pedro and the Pickle Caper of Pittsylvania County” to the more aptly named “Pedro’s Pickles and the American Dream.”
“Pedro” is perhaps the most clearly defined story germination that I recall. While it was not a straightforward evolution, neither was it torturous. It elicited no fretful moments or bleedings—only joy.
Don’t worry ma, I was only pickling.