Chapter 5: Re-Entry

Peter and I found ourselves sitting on the terrace outside my office, overlooking Lac Leman. It was a cold but sunny December morning, and I had invited him to join me outside for a breakfast session, complete with croissants and espresso a la Suisse.

The morning sun, shining down on the frozen lake and on its banks with their elevated vineyards, made for a magnificent view. From where we were sitting, we could see all the way up to the Chateau de Morges, a magnificent castle set in its own park. In spring time, the one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand tulips and daffodils surrounding the castle would bloom. For now, the tall chestnut trees above the Chateau took the eye even higher, ending up with the most spectacular view of a snowy Mt Blanc against an Azure sky.

It’s quite funny when you think of it, the fact that our addiction-centric healing facility is located in the midst of the most famous wine tasting houses in the Lake Geneva region. I guess it means we’re not hiding from temptation, but rather willfully facing it.

Despite the breathtaking Alpine backdrop to our rendezvous, Peter looked disheartened. I knew he had just come back from a short break to the Tuscan countryside with his wife Helen, so I had kind of expected him to be reinvigorated. It had been their first time out alone as a couple, since his release from rehab.

This was not good.

Sipping from his Lavazza Super Crema Espresso, Peter looked at me and said: “This is fabulous coffee, Doc. Bitter and not too rich, just the way I like it. And it warms me up. Thanks for having this meeting in the open air. It makes for a welcome break from sitting in an office. Or in a plane, for that matter.”

I was pleasantly surprised to hear him say these words. He was clearly making an effort to do a little dance before plunging into deeper, more serious communication. Usually, he did not bother with small talk and often skipped these first few rungs on the ladder of conversation. But today he did, and I appreciated his willingness to invest in our relationship, despite his apparent somber mood.

I matched his tone: “It’s my pleasure, Peter. With a wonderful winter sun like this, it would be crazy for us to stay inside. And this view never fails to cheer me up. Now tell me, how was the time alone with Helen? It must have been good to give each other some undivided attention, after the turbulence of the last few months?”

He hesitated and I got a clear sense that talking about the weekend was painful for him.

Looking out across the lake, he said quietly: “I think Helen and I both had very high expectations, to begin with, Doc. I guess we had expected we could just copy-paste some of the really great trips we took together in the early days before my drinking got in the way.”

I waited for a moment and said: “So I take it things did not go as expected, Peter. What happened?”

“Well Doc, the weekend was bound to fail as we tried to reconstruct a romantic fantasy of the past. But boy, the way reality caught up with us, there in lovely Tuscany, was harsh. Nostalgia for our younger days was quickly replaced by the realization that things were not the same with me not able to drink. The trip made us see that the past really is irrevocable, and we both have changed and so has our marriage.”

It was clear that Peter had put his mind to work again and had analyzed the Italian weekend experience to death. 

As I did not want to encourage him further down this path, I decided to steer the discussion in another direction: “Peter, this is really the first time we discuss your relationship with Helen. We touched about her disapproving of your drinking a couple of times, but I think it would be worth to fully appreciate the quality of the bond the two of you have. Do you mind giving me some background and history to your marriage, before we further discuss the trip you took together?”

Peter stood up and walked to the edge of the terrace, close to the water. I could tell my interrupting his stream of thought had upset him. I had a feeling he was not used to being directed.

“Alright, let’s see Doc, Helen and I have been married for twenty-two years this month. Our traveling to Italy was a wedding anniversary of sorts. She and I met when we were both taking a post-graduate MBA at Leuven University, the oldest college in the whole of Europe. Those were glorious times. I could talk for hours about my memories of our college days.”

He smiled when he said this, staring over the water. 

“Helen was the prettiest girl on campus and, if anything, she looks even more beautiful now. Anyway, we’ve been together ever since. The lady’s got class and style, what can I say. I am very lucky.”

I smiled and said: “And what is she like, your wife?”

“Helen is the strongest person I know, a woman with real stamina. She started her own company a couple of years ago and she is successful and independent. Together, we have battled our way through our share of very difficult situations, especially the long and many cycles of Anorexia Nervosa which our daughter Winter have had to fight her way through.”

Silently, I was amazed that this had not come up earlier. Anorexia is known to destroy many a marriage, as its destructive dynamic tends to intoxicate and permeate the family unit as a system. I took note of this for later reference.

Peter continued: “Helen is resilient as a person and that is the main reason she is still with me. She could have easily left me when I just about destroyed our family with my drinking. But she didn’t. In fact, she gave me a strong ultimatum, and that helped me finally commit to abstinence.”

I was triggered by the apparent ease by which he used the word ultimatum: “We will come back to Helen’s personality, but can you tell me more about that ultimatum, Peter. This seems relevant. An ultimatum often backfires when a person is being forced into something they didn’t choose of their own free will. In the final showdown, somebody always loses.”

Peter responded as if stung by a wasp: “No Doc, it was nothing like that. Helen patiently waited until all else had failed before telling me she would leave me if I did not stop drinking. She had remained supportive even during the horrible last three years before I finally quit. She had stood by me while I kept spiraling down as if she trusted me enough to know that things would turn eventually.”

He looked at me with surprise on his face, as if he an entirely new realization had just dawned upon him: “Come to think of it, she had more faith in me than I did. There was a time when I was convinced I would drink myself to death, I did no longer see a way out. Helen could have walked away right there and then, but instead, all that time, she stood by me and carried on with her life, as normal as possible, somewhat detached but still with love. Still there, present.”

Peter paused for a moment, and then continued, clearly overtaken by emotion: “Helen knew very well that the ultimate decision to quit had to come from me and that forcing my hand would not help. All this time she held back, knowing that I had not yet reached that point. It is nothing less than amazing that she was willing to see it through to its bitter end. For better or for worse, as they say.”

I kept silent, as I felt this again was one of these sacred moments in which the real Peter surfaced.

“When I finally did reach rock bottom, rather than being shocked or angry, she composed herself and told me in a straightforward manner that she would leave me if I did not take this final opportunity to stop. It was very clear that she meant it, but it was not an act of aggression or hostility, but rather of compassion. She seemed to sense that she was the ultimate catalyst and she was right. The thought of losing her did tip the scale and gave me the final push. When willpower is totally impaired, as it was in my case, a small miracle is needed. That is what she gave me.”

“When was this Peter?” My voice sounded weird, as I found myself having trouble containing my own emotions.

“Well, her timing was spot on. When I was open to listening to the voice of reason after the Moscow episode with the gun, she used that momentum and told me to quit drinking once and for all. She said this was my last chance to claim her love. Quite a ruthless strategy it was, in hindsight, with a subtle feminine quality to it. In any case, it worked.”

This was refreshing to hear. Often, power battles involving a heavy ultimatum get ugly very fast and even if the husband agrees to go into rehab to save the marriage, without fail, there would be some kind of revenge or retaliation afterward. But Peter expressed no hard feelings whatsoever of being strong-handed into abstinence.

It made me wonder even more what had gone wrong this past weekend.

“Helen sounds like a forceful person and very dedicated to you, Peter. You should indeed feel lucky. So tell me about Tuscany.”

“Ah yes, Doc. We were staying at the Villa Campestri, a splendid Renaissance house surrounded by olive gardens and set on a hill top, overlooking the Mugello Valley in the Tuscan countryside. We had been there before, years ago, when things were still more or less under control.”

“With hindsight, Peter, it might have been wiser to pick a new location for your first trip sober. These beautiful but familiar settings you describe must have been a powerful reminder of more carefree times when you could still drink, at that exact same place.”

“Very true, Doc, but too late now, obviously.”

Peter seemed annoyed with my analysis. I must have hit a nerve.

“Anyway, it rained in Tuscany for three days straight. This added a sad quality to the surroundings. As if the weather wanted to underscore that things have definitively changed now, and life is going to be nothing but hard for me as a recovering alcoholic, even in glorious f*****g Italy. Excuse my language.”

I secretly mused once more about Peter’s propensity to connect dots which should not be connected, like now with the rain. He often saw synchronicities, events with no causal relationship, but in his mind, they were related in a clear and meaningful way. I tried to keep a serious face and said: “Peter, surely the rain was not responsible for spoiling your stay? What do you think was the main reason for your disappointment?”

“Doc, let me think how I can best convey to you the anticlimax Helen and I both felt. I think it is best if I tell you about one specific afternoon when we went to visit Arezzo, a Medieval town just south of Florence where we used to go to in the early days. Is that ok?”

I started to have a distinctly bad feeling about them visiting old romantic getaways, but I said: “Yes, please help me understand what happened, Peter.”

“Well, we had rented an Alfa Romeo Spider and drove off mid-morning to arrive there in time for lunch. Arezzo has the same old world charm as bigger rivals like Siena, but fewer tourists. The many small streets and impressive Piazza Grande, its main square, give it a really wonderful vibe.”

An aficionado of Italy myself, I felt like I was right there.

“Helen and I walked around, gazing at the quaint antique shops and art galleries while looking for a nice restaurant to have lunch. It had stopped raining for a bit and people took seats outside of the many bars and restaurants to enjoy the precious sunshine. But the more I saw people laugh and enjoy themselves, the more I felt tension and anxiety.”

“What do you think caused that, Peter?”

“My stomach was tied in knots, I felt queasy. I even had to sit down for a minute because I felt dizzy.”

“I understand that is how you felt, but what do you think triggered it?”

“I was overwhelmed by seeing people drink wine and have fun. Simple as that. The sensory input was just too much and old memories and associations got the better of me. My cravings for a drink grew stronger by the minute. And I felt guilty.”

I knew exactly what he meant but I wanted him to say it out loud. I echoed: “Guilty?”

“Yes, guilty. Hell, I was supposed to be cured. I knew Helen expected me to be my old self, the same fun and romantic guy she had married twenty-two years ago. She had been looking forward to this trip for a long time, she deserved a good time. After all, I had successfully made it through rehab, and now we were together in this wonderful place where we had been very happy in the old days. If I was not able here in Arezzo to be the Peter she remembered, where would I be?”

I could see it was painful for him to relay this to me because he knew deep inside that his argument was false. I held my breath.

He carefully concluded: “I could sense Helen’s deep disappointment when I said I did not feel well. It made me sick to my stomach.”

Distressing as this was, it was time to show some tough love: “Peter, I am sorry but really you should have known better. After four stints of rehab, you have experienced first-handed that re-entry into society is very difficult. Especially in the beginning, it is unrealistic and impossible to be enjoyable and entertaining in the company of others without a drink, if alcohol has been your social lubricant for so many years.”

I looked for an analogy and said: “Compare it with the re-entry of a spacecraft. Also, that is tricky business. As it re-enters the Earth’s atmosphere, the capsule encounters violent air friction which causes intense heat. Without insulation coating, like a heat shield, it will burn up with its crew inside, before it can land safely.”

Peter was listening intently, so I continued: “For you to re-enter and land safely into society, you need to insulate yourself, Peter. You need to shield and protect yourself against friction. The requirement to be romantic and fun in places where other people consume alcohol freely, is the very definition of friction, for you as an alcoholic. Do you see my point?”

Peter was staring at his feet. He said: “I get it, Doc.”

I took a minute to consider how best to take this further and then said: “I am afraid the two of you were overly ambitious when going on this trip. From the start, it seemed designed to fall well below expectations. You went to an old and familiar place where you used to drink and enjoy life together. Believe me, the weather was not the problem. ”

I was a bit angry that he had allowed himself be tricked into this unhelpful situation: “Peter, it is not uncommon for an alcoholic to sabotage his own sobriety on an unconscious level. Maybe you were setting yourself up to drink again. Maybe you were preparing yourself for relapse by showing that abstinence is incompatible with marriage?”

It was clear Peter had not looked at it from this angle. He seemed surprised by my apparent anger but I knew he needed this wake-up call.

He went on the defensive.

“Doc, I am so tired of it all. I am sick of wearing a mask, of putting on this brave face as if everything is back to normal. This is not me, not yet anyway. I want to come clean on the fact that I cannot drink anymore, ever. But the world doesn’t seem to let me.”

I could see he was in a fragile state. Maybe I had pushed him too hard?

“Peter, I think I understand what you mean. Being sober now, people expect you to ‘be over it’. No doubt, it is tiresome to keep up a façade, to hide your doubts and fears, and the cravings of course. Especially towards Helen, who you believe expects you now to be again the great guy she used to know. That is really something the two of you need to untangle, these unrealistic expectations. Because they could make you drink again.”

My empathy seemed to resonate.

He looked at the clock and then straight back at me: “Doc, I know our time is up but can I ask you one more thing before we finish?”

“Sure, Peter. I realize today could not have been easy for you.”

“Well, I have even harder stuff to face, next week. I need to go to Las Vegas to attend my company’s Global Sales Conference. I'm sure you can appreciate I am worried because again this is a situation where drinking is expected. It will be quasi-compulsory, even. I guess you know what I am talking about. Open bar every night, drinking and gambling, a long week of mandatory celebration .”

He looked desperate: “It takes place in the world’s biggest casino, for god’s sake. I don’t know how I will be able to bear this. People know I am back on the job, and they will smell blood if I do not drink. It is so not part of the culture not to booze up during the conference. Everyone is expected to put up a ‘work hard, play hard’ persona for a full week. F**k.”

It was time to take a formal stance as his doctor: “Peter, if there really is no way you can avoid this trip to Vegas, I need you to protect yourself. Under no condition can you be made to drink. I want you to talk to a trusted party within the company. You need to tell this person in confidence that you are in recovery and that you will want to go back to your room at times when all the others are partying. If that is not possible, then you should not go at all. I am willing to attest to that.”

Peter seemed relieved and offered no resistance: “Ok, Doc, I will do that, I will talk to HR. It will just be hard to get through next week, that’s all. Again, I wished I was normal.”

“Peter, you know that as far as alcohol is concerned, you will never get back to normal. This is for life. But I guarantee you that you will learn to enjoy living again. You are doing hard time now, you will see the pay-off later.”

I felt bad about sending him off like that. I wished we had spent more time on prepping him for the Vegas challenge ahead. While we were walking towards the door, I said: “And Peter, remember that writing is a door to your deeper self. You say you are tired of wearing a mask. Well, I advise you to write about Vegas. You will find this is liberating. And try not to focus on the drinking, try to be open and learn from the experience.”

  

Singularity by Peter Baer

I've been stuck at Chicago's O'Hare International Airport for the past four hours now. The board shows only canceled flights due to a blinding blizzard raging over the Mid-West. With hundreds of other weary travelers, I am gazing down on the snow-covered tarmac through the floor-to-ceiling airport windows. It is only 2 pm, but the ambiance feels like early evening. This perception may be psychological in nature because we all feel gloomy. The huge Christmas tree in the center of the terminal does nothing to cheer us up, everyone just wants to go home.

Outside, the fallen snow is blowing around in all directions causing a complete whiteout. The angry wind slams snowflakes into the windows. I have plenty of time to watch the ice crystals frost the glass with dendrites branching out in asymmetry as if to impress me with their singularity. I see the window glass turn translucent under a thin film of ice. A familiar mix of happiness and grief engulfs me.

It is said that melancholy is sadness that has taken on lightness. The sliver of joy I feel in these otherwise cheerless circumstances is triggered by the untouched, pristine snow which has always been a symbol of bliss to me. Waking up to unexpected snowfall was my ultimate childhood delight. It meant no school and a total breaking away from the ordinary. Snow turned a grim world into a perfect one, a layer of white magic to cover reality.

As a grown-up, though, there seems to be nothing but a downside to snow. I look at the tired faces around me and it makes me sad. It's all within the confines of our heads, I realize. I bet we all have a latent desire deep down to go outside and start a mad snowball fight, but there is just no catalyst here to make that happen.

On my way back to Europe, I have arrived here in Chicago from sunny Las Vegas where I have spent the last seven days locked up at the unavoidable Caesar's Palace as a participant in my company’s annual Sales Conference. My mind drifts back to exactly one week ago when I arrived at the casino and stared with open mouth at the crowd.

Two thousand four hundred sales execs, all working for the same global software company as I do, have assembled for this big production on the Las Vegas Strip.

Tribute will be paid here to the illusion that once again this year we've beaten the competition. No doubt, somewhere in a similar convention center in Paris or Boston, our adversaries are doing the exact same thing. And so the world turns.

No efforts have been spared to make us feel part of a global powerhouse. Our turnover equals the GDP of a small European country, our CEO shakes hands in Davos with Obama and Merkel and the value of our global brand is right up there with Google's. And yes, we feel proud to be here.

And I must admit that the keynote speakers on stage at the Gala Dinner triggered a definite exaltation in me to belong to this company. My colleagues and I are sitting at three hundred round tables inside the world's largest ballroom. This space is so gargantuan that it is impossible to see across the room to the other side.

After a sumptuous American-style dinner, the Global Sales Award is granted to Team India for persevering and reaching target despite several natural disasters. 

The crowd goes wild while Coldplay’s A Sky Full of Stars blasts from the powerful sound system.

I feel the adrenaline pumping and my hair is standing on end. I am in awe and so is everyone in the room. Tick in the box.

I've not been alone for one minute the whole week, playing my part in this sophisticated corporate choreography. No need to question the why of things, we are in Vegas to celebrate the what. All of us are essential, yet interchangeable cogs in a global sales machine. There seems to be no room for identity, we go for safety in conformity. A large corporation is like an army, the platoon matters, not the individual.

Funny when you come to think of it, our overriding commercial objectives seem to be of a higher order than any local disputes we might have. My colleagues have flown in from twenty-nine different countries to this desolate place in the Nevada desert as if participating in a Global Peace Summit in a demilitarized zone.

Our Russian sales reps have breakfast with their American peers not discussing the annexation of Crimea. Arabs drink tea with Israelites not touching upon Gaza. Greeks and Germans play the slot machines side by side, unconcerned with the next tier of Triumvirate debt relief. All of the real-world conflicts which are a burning platform outside this hotel are suspended for the duration of this grandiose ego fest.

Nothing unites people like money does, at least for one week in this Palace of Kitsch, with not one single window to the world. Narrowing our perspectives down to our trading targets has us properly fixated and acting as brothers-in-arms.

The plot in Vegas is to make us feel like corporate warriors. This is cleverly crafted because once we are in that frame of mind, you can ask us anything. Sales heroism is to the alpha male what cocaine is to an addict, injected straight into the vein.

The global software market is depicted as a war zone and acts of bravery on this commercial battlefield are rewarded in a very public way. Doses of praise are doled out in the form of sales awards and entry tickets to a select line-up.

The group is split in two. Those who ‘Made Club' and those who did not. The quota-achieving elite gets an admission ticket to the prestigious President's Club. This All-Star team will go with their spouses on a lavish company-paid vacation to Cabo, Mexico. The others will do what it takes to make it next year or will die trying. In any case, ‘The 100% Club' puts a strain on quite a few marriages.

All of this is pretty addictive stuff, taking place in a casino of all places. It has us hooked in an eerie, primeval way. The art of selling is framed in terms of campaigns, tactics, and strategies. Recognition is structured as a system of ceremonies, rites, and rituals, appealing directly to the brainstem, the oldest part of our intellect where primitive instincts and primal emotions overrule more sophisticated reasoning.

Our reptilian brain took millions of years to develop and its agenda is to assure we survive and thrive. It can make us reach beyond our boundaries, fueled by its potent will to power. Think of the ritual behavior of two lions establishing territories and competing for dominance.  Not unlike two sales execs going after the same deal. Winner takes it all. Brilliant set-up and a proven concept borrowed from the world of predators.

Amongst the many hundreds of sales colleagues, only very few are female and the ladies really stand out. Obviously, they are aware of the 100:1 sex ratio here at the event and bask in the extraordinary attention. Dressed for success in Giorgio Armani business suits and spectacular Bulgari evening dresses, they work their double magic of beauty and brains.

There is Sarah from Detroit, Ana from Sao Paulo, and of course Viktoriya from St-Petersburg who wins over the crowd while presenting a customer success story in broken English with an irresistible Russian accent. I suspect she masters the English language far better than this but uses the accent for maximum effect on the sea of male onlookers in the plenary. She is flawless, both in style and essence. Her particular Russian blend of girlish charm and business savvy is a winning combination with this hard-to-please wolf pack. I can only imagine what she can accomplish with a customer. Respect.

Viktoriya and the other women at least radiate personality. I've been observing my male colleagues during the week and in contrast to the ladies, the men all seem cast in the same mold. Look at them and you see ardent crusaders, equipped with adequate body armor - business casual, no tie. They are cool and composed in their personas and robust in their convictions. Life is straightforward, without room for doubts or regrets. Or any other feelings for that matter.

But I know from experience that fear is a powerful emotion in sales people. 

Internal competition makes us far more nervous than the customer does. We are afraid to get behind our peers on the leader board, we are anxious to miss quota, and ultimately to get fired. And these worries overlay a dread buried even deeper, the trepidation to get rejected from a top-selling sales culture that provides not only our livelihood but also our self-esteem. To be in sales is in effect an elaborate immortality project, feeding off our basic survival instinct. We can achieve greatness amongst our peers and feel part of a symbolic system that provides us with a sense of accomplishment, not to mention cash in our pockets. 

No need for command-and-control. We so much want to be part of this that we act under our own steam.

I can’t help but wonder what the others see when they look at me. I am sure my polished exterior cannot hide the fact that my inner weather is more unstable than theirs. And my newly found sobriety makes me even more doubtful of my abilities and the purpose of it all.

Or could it be that they are in the same constant state of flux as I am? Are they less sure of themselves than they appear at face value? Maybe so. How else could I have stood my ground for so long in this competitive crowd and even managed to climb up the food chain?

For the first time ever it strikes me that there is absolutely no way that I'd be somehow special. That I'd be unique, with my shifting emotions and constant mind chatter.

I concede that all of us must have this same inner dialogue going on. I almost laugh out loud at the thought of speech bubbles floating above all the heads of the conference audience. Many hundreds of personal narratives going on at the same time. I feel instant relief just by visualizing this.

The seemingly superhuman equanimity of my peers could very well be only skin-deep and does no longer intimidate me so. Our singularity may be hidden, like a tattoo beneath our Hugo Boss shirts, but it is there. Sure thing!

I come back to the here and now at O'Hare in Chicago, when from the corner of my eye I notice the flight board jump from reds to greens. My fellow travelers are picking up their bags and start moving to the gates with restored spirits.

I must have been standing here for quite a while lost in thought because the sky has cleared outside. The ice crystals on the window glass reflect the rays of a pale winter sun. Crews outside are de-icing the wings of the planes. We are on the move again.

I feel as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Sales is a game and I am a seasoned player. But it is no more than a game. It is not who I am. And the others are no robots but flawed human beings, just like me.

Also, for the first time in quite a while, I allow myself to be proud of my abstinence. I did it. I did not have a drink the whole damned week, even in that waterhole in the middle of the Nevada desert.

My mood gets a further lift when I hear Bruce Springsteen’s  Dancing in the Dark play in the background. The video wall projects the classic 1984 clip in which The Boss invites a young and stunning Courteney Cox to join him to dance on stage, her first shot at fame.

I look at the Now Boarding sign next to my flight. I walk up to the gate and feel lighthearted while I show my boarding pass to the cute blond attendant. Her name tag spells Vicky which instantly reminds me of my charming St-Petersburg colleague.

This Vicky right here smiles back at me in a professional yet personal way. I am sure she is genuinely happy to see me and this is not pretending.

Author's Note

Version 5 uploaded.

Reviews

[Ted Kniffen]

I like the story, Philip, and the interaction between the two men. One thing that is beginning to come through is the 'name dropping'. By that I mean the tendency to name a place and then a quick description of it. I.E.

“Ah yes, Tuscany. Ok, Doc. We were staying at the Villa Campestri, a splendid Renaissance house surrounded by olive gardens and set on a hill top, overlooking the Mugello Valley in the Tuscan countryside. We had been there before, years ago, when things were still more or less under control.”

There's too much detail here for a regular conversation, especially without something coming from the doctor. Maybe something along the lines of
“Ah yes, Tuscany. Ok, Doc. We were staying at the Villa Campestri. Do you know the place? It's on a hill top overlooking the Mugello Valley. We had been there before, when things were still more or less under control.”

Too much minutiae is bogging the story down for me. This I assume is the first draft and will get tighter in the re-writes. So far I see a lot of potential with this. Write hard, edit harder.

[Philip Muls]

Thank you for constructive feedback Ted

[felioness]

Good editing! The story rolled along much more smoothly and I was able to formulate visions of the landscape as well as what the characters were doing.KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK!!!

[Philip Muls]

Thank you for encouraging words

[felioness]

My pleasure. I can tell you are serious about honing your craft because of the way you accept constructive criticsm. I respect you for that knowing It can be painful but it is like growing pains...needed for growth.

[Raylene]

The story line needs some work but has great potential dear!

[Serge Wlodarski]

Bringing Helen into the story is a good way to branch out. Based on what I've seen recovering alcoholics go through, Peter is screwed if he stays in sales. Eventually the pressure will be too much and he'll go back to drinking.

I'm enjoying Peter's story. I'm one of the people who sits on the other side of the conference room table from him, for the past 25 years. To me, despite your obvious physical and cultural differences, you are all exactly alike to me. Peter is doing a good job of explaining how I came to that conclusion.

[Philip Muls]

Thank you Serge

[ReedWrite]

I think the story line has a lot of potential. From reading this chapter, I would assume the novel is more a character-driven piece...which means the interactions between characters, character development, character personality, and appropriate conflict have to play a larger role in holding the reader's attention. I would suggest trimming down some of the sentences. There are a lot of fluff words...which means, words that don't need to be in the sentence to convey meaning. You will also want to be wary of overusing a passive voice. Looking at this sentence:

I was triggered by the apparent ease by which he used the word ultimatum:

The word 'triggered' seemed out of place...what was triggered? Anger? Fear? Also, using the word "by" twice in one sentence was a little jarring, for me as the reader. It's something that can be easily smoothed out: His casual use of the word 'ultimatum', intrigued me. Generally you do not use a colon to lead into dialogue. So, I'd go through and edit those out.

Taking my full responsibility as his doctor, I said: ““Peter, if there really....

Taking my full responsibility as his doctor, I said, ““Peter, if there really...

Also, in the above sentence...'Taking my full responsibility as his doctor' sounds awkward, and it's a little confusing. It leaves the reader wondering what you meant to say...and if my mind is wrapped around that conundrum, then you've lost me...I'm now out of the story line and focusing on something technical.

Don't mean to nit-pick...but I'm trying to give you some ideas of ways to smooth out the rough patches. A lot of people come up with great story lines, but we all trip up over the technical aspects of writing a good novel. Sometimes, it even boils down to personal quirks. For example, one of my personal quirks is seeing the same word used more than once in a sentence...or even within the span of two sentences. Sometimes it can't be helped, but if I can find an alternative way of saying something...in other words, using a thesaurus...I will change one of the words, simply because it bugs me. Doesn't mean it's wrong...it's just my personal quirk. You have a great start here...keep at it.

[Philip Muls]

Thank you for relevant feedback

[felioness]

When I am asked to do a review I give an honest one. I welcome constructive criticism and have learned much that way. Sometimes new, and/or insecure writer gets very offended by ANY suggestions. I hope you are not so inclined. However, I will give you some honest advice. The story has potential but it is being crippled by grammar and punctuation issues and clumsily laid sentences. You need to ruthlessly edit your work. For example this line in the opening of chapter five has a glaring typo that puts off the reader right away:

Seen it was a cold but beautiful morning, I had invited him to join me outside - wearing our winter jackets - for a breakfast session, complete with croissants and espresso a la Suisse.

I think you meant SEEING and drop the word HAD and get rid of the - weird - punctuation and overuse of "and"

Now for CLARITY:

The morning sun, shining down on the lake and on the gentle slopes with their majestic vineyards surrounding the water made for a magnificent view.

is boring and unclear. Shorten sentences if need be to increase clarity as the reader reads. But above all make sentences as clear, as meaningful and as beautiful as is possible.

for example:

The morning sun, shining down on the lake and on the gentle slopes (WHAT GENTLE SLOPES? FROM WHERE? IS THE VINEYARD ON THE BANKS OF THE LAKE? with their majestic vineyards (WHAT MAKES THESE VINEYARDS MAJESTIC?) surrounding the water made for a magnificent view . (DESCRIBE THE MAGNIFICENT VIEW).

The potential is there but as a reader I am having trouble visualizing this description. I kind of know what you want to say but it is jumping all over the place.

I would write it more like:


The morning sun, glistening on the lake, kissed the majestic vineyard sprawling over the gentle slopes and rolling hills that surrounded the shining waters.

or some such variant, this way the reader gets a minds eye vision of the scene which is a vineyard growing on the hills surrounding a beautiful lake beneath a shining sun. One can visualize the beauty of it.

The meat of the story is good but I urge you to develop more clear and concise wording to keep the readers attention. If it gets too bumpy you will lose them.

[Philip Muls]

Thank you for relevant feedback