August 17, 2012
The first thing I wrote was a little story on one of those very soft, gray elementary-school tablets with the widely spaced blue lines, a story about two boys trapped in a coal mine. Help, we're trapped in a coal mine! Then I put the story in a bottle and threw it in the river. A few days later it came back. It was a little like getting a rejection in the mail except there wasn't even a typed letter. Just my original, intact but damp.
I am writing novel that in its pure form would be totally dreamlike, with illustrations like those in a book I remember reading as a child, where there were goblins ... or maybe it was the Swiss Family Robinson, or Treasure Island ... or Huck Finn ... but in a craftsmanlike compromise I am attempting to give this utterly dreamlike novel a coherent through line ... and taking forever to do it.
I think I will never forget Cafe Babar, but it is long gone. Lately I have developed a fondness for the Hotel Rex, and I will always like the Booksmith and the bookshop on West Portal. Oh and of course that place up in Corte Madera.
I'm a longtime San Francisco writer (came for the revolution and stayed to do the office work) who loves writing spontaneously with others. Join us some Friday. Take BART on your lunch hour and be back at work before the boss knows you're gone.
well, heck, gee, golly, gosh, it's just grand, Pops!