Higher Grounds Café, San Francisco
I feel antsy today. I feel tightly wound. I think there are several reasons for this, but the main one being a lack of any good story to read. I do not however lack reading material. I am currently reading Steinbeck’s Journal of a Novel, Hemingway’s Green Hills of Africa, The Idiot’s Guide to the Bible and of course, The Bible itself. Of these only the Bible is providing any direct source of inspiration.
But I need a novel. I’m desperate for one in fact. I started Ha Jin’s Waiting, but it begins at a slow and plodding pace and I want to be swept into something. Perhaps you can recommend a novel by an author I have never read. Something astounding. Assume I have read nothing, for in fact, I have not. Oh, how I wish I had majored in English Literature someplace nice in New England. What a wasted education I had. This is my biggest regret. And it stems from a lack of a role model and mentor as a boy. It is essential, imperative, crucial – to take a young person under one’s wing and help him to find his path. My mother was a fabulous cheerleader, she was, the source of my confidence. But I needed a guide, a captain. Still, I would change nothing if I could.
Now to the book. It goes so incredibly slow. My daily word count is unimpressive. If I was living alone in a cabin somewhere, it would not matter, I would work on it forever if need be. Time. Money. Distractions. These are the enemies of the poor writer. The rich writer has different enemies. But those are his to worry about.
I wonder Andrew if you have ever fly-fished, and if not, if you desire to do so? One of my dreams is to spend my dusks hip-deep in cold water. Working flies. Can you imagine that? Shall we build our writer’s cabin by a stream? Think about it. I’m going to work.
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January 16, 2002
Higher Grounds Café, San Francisco
I had a small breakthrough yesterday. Perhaps it was not too small. We shall see what happens today. But I knew it was important because I wrote a sentence that tipped the story, as if on a fulcrum, and I swear to you I got chills, and my throat tightened and I had to stop for a moment to collect myself. Now, maybe it isn’t as big of a deal as all that. Perhaps it is even a dead end. But what happened was this:
I am writing now a scene that takes place as the now twenty-year-old John Cross (since renamed Tobias) has brought Charles Flint and Jacob up to Slaughter Mountain (In the previous chapter, John Cross was re-introduced, he came to Jacob’s aid after he was seriously bitten by a snake and came close to death (Jacob survived, but by his own accord, through his own inner strength). During their journey back up to the mountain, and the church there, John Cross tells them all that has happened since Charles Flint departed ten years earlier. He had been taken in by the Bowsky Brothers, and he was indoctrinated into their church, where he became a young preacher. But when he was only fourteen, both Ray and Esau Bowsky died suddenly, a week apart, as a result of their dealings with poison and snakes. As Esau lay dying, he made John Cross promise to go on as the preacher of the Slaughter Mountain church, and he told them about a dream that both he and his twin had on the same night – in fact, it was the night before Charles Flint showed up and destroyed the African voodoo-box. In that dream, they foresaw their own deaths, and they also saw that a child should take their place, that a boy would come who would not only lead their congregation, but all Holiness congregations, uniting the disparate backwoods churches. Both John Cross and indeed myself, believed that he, John Cross, was that boy. For several days, after having written this scene in long-hand, it never occurred to me that it was not John they had seen in their dream, but Jacob. And when this happened, when I was re-working the scene and re-thinking the dream, I was struggling with a single line of dialog, spoken by John Cross, and as I often do, I speak it aloud and try to get into character. For I become these people while writing them. I am them, I feel everything they feel, and in that moment, I did not think about the dream, I knew it, as if it was told to me, and I spoke the line aloud. And I knew it was true. It was truer than true. It was one of those rare moments when one says to oneself ‘This is why I write.’
So, you struggle and you struggle. You wander lost and groggy. The hours of darkness are many, you cannot count on the imminent rise of a sun. Gravity does not apply here, its rhythms are not circadian, but cicadian. You dig into the ground and gestate and God only knows when the time will come, when the light will pour back in. So you work. You keep the faith. You have faith because that’s all there is, it’s your only possession. You don’t think, you know. That is faith. Knowing. You know the work will find itself, that if you yourself are worthy, it will take form. And all you have to do to be worthy is, believe.
I’ve spent too much time on this damn letter and as you can see, I am not writing. So I will now stand and refill my coffee, and make the transition from meandering to prose. Be well.
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January 15, 2002
Higher Grounds Café, San Francisco
I had a terribly depressing thought last night. I thought, ‘What if I’m not ready for this book?’, ‘What if I am over-reaching?’. I was watching Ken Burns’ wonderful documentary about Mark Twain. And it always makes me feel so feeble to hear of the lives and exploits of the great writers. I am worried that I say too much, show too much, describe too much and yet reveal so little. I look at my long-hand work, and I see that is falls so far short of doing the job – it is so sparse, these first drafts in long-hand require much tweaking. I spent much time working them and re-working them, as the potter throws clay and destroys…throws clay and destroys. There is a great story in the bible about this. I am trying to remember it now. God tells one of the prophets to go to a house of a potter, to watch this process of building and rebuilding, the pot is an allegory for Israel and the story is meant to show the reader that this Sisyphusian process never ends. I will look up this passage and share it with you.
The whole thing is very mysterious. Yet I resist the urge to attempt an explanation. I am not writing something from a plan. I did not even want to write this book. I wanted to write a collection of short stories instead. Mark Twain kept Huckleberry Finn on the back shelf for years. He needed to go back to the Mississippi, to travel down and then back up it once more in order to prepare. But this is not my Huckleberry Finn, this is not my world, nor do I draw from any childhood experiences or characters from my own life. I am proud of myself because this is pure imagination, pure fiction, pure dream. If I can pull this off Andrew, I can do anything, write anything. I will never ever give up. I have the faith of Job.
Now to work. The sun is out strong, the air is quite cold for this city and there are cowboy songs playing in my head.
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Higher Grounds Café, San Francisco
I must confess that I feel very uncomfortable hearing about other writers. I do not like to see them interviewed on television, and I do not like hearing about their prizes and awards. I do not like to go to readings and I despise overhearing conversations in which writers are talking. This is because I feel so insecure about my own work, and also quite impatient. I envy that they have finished (books) and when they talk about how they are deciding to write their next book, and what to write about, I am forced to muster great self-control so as not to scream. I have no money Andrew, and no income, and try as I might to not let this creep into my daily thoughts, I find myself worrying more and more – and perhaps this is yet another insidious way my subconscious attempts to sabotage my work. And there are so many ways. Steinbeck used to write his confessions in letters to himself that he would then immediately burn. I wonder if this helped in any way?
I have been dreaming. My night-time visions have been vivid and filled with strange and sometimes terrible things. It is wondrous and fantastic how the mind works. It always shows us what we need to see. Last night I witnessed the suffering of wandering men. I saw them sleeping in culverts, and beneath stairwells. It was very cold outside and they were wrapped in horrible blankets and castaway rugs. And they were covered in their own vomit and in excrement, and I did nothing to help them, In fact, I ran away. I choose not to interpret this.
But I wish I would dream of the book. Why don’t I dream of it I wonder? I am worried that it is not consuming me. Shouldn’t it consume me? Why doesn’t Charles Flint or Jacob Flint come to me in the night? I need them to come. I need them to tell me things. I never see them at any other time then when I am working. I want to be consumed and obsessed. I feel like such a sham. Who am I to write this book? I know nothing of them, I know nothing. Now this is a wonderful way to get started isn’t it? These letters are supposed to warm my engine, not drain its oil. Therefore I will stop. Know this my friend, if you are suffering, I suffer with you. There is no end to this I’m afraid. And I don’t think I want it to end. I only want to finish the book.
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January 11, 2002
South Park Café, San Francisco
I realize now that I misdated my previous letter. It was in fact the tenth and not the ninth of January yesterday…
Now, I must tell you, that I feel it is necessary for me to walk to my writing place, and if possible, to walk a significant distance in order to arrive there. I have made it my habit to come here, to this café, on Fridays, though it takes considerable time and effort to do so. South Park is a lovely and secret little place a quarter mile from the new baseball stadium and less than a hundred yards from the spot where Jack London was born. This is where I began my first story, and where I drew my early inspiration. I feel as though his wandering spirit bolsters my abilities here, and I am talking about Jack London, who resides in my heart and pantheon of influences and inspirations. But back to walking for a moment.
Movement, the pounding of one’s heart, the ever-changing scenery, exposure to people, regular people, working-class people, going about their daily routines, trains, buses, taxis, street-beggars, the sunlight dancing on the windows of the high-rises, the cold air and the steam seeping up from the sewer grates – all this frees the mind and prepares the conscious to greet the unconscious. There is also a sense of purpose when one journeys to one’s place of work. I have often felt the spark of inspiration for many of my writings on these walks. It seems that I must warm up like an old car in winter before I can drive….
I am excited now because I am developing my process, though it must remain a flexible process. I do not worry. I do not think very much. I trust it to come. I have faith, not so much in the end result, but in its inception. I know I can begin, and if I can begin, there is hope of an end.
“Just remember that this book will go on forever. I do not ever intend to finish it. And only with this attitude will it progress as I wish it to.”
Andrew, nothing in my life or in my experience has prepared me for this kind of patience. I am most ill-prepared for the writing life - for the creation of the great and lasting novel. You may as well ask me to create one of those Navajo sand paintings that are crafted grain by grain over many years, only to be swept away upon the moment of completion. Did I get that right? Are they Navajo sand paintings? Or are they Indian, as in the yogis of India? Please correct me if I am mistaken. Andrew, it is my great wish to work side-by-side with you. I envy how you and Gina have your desks in one room the way you do, and I think you have a fine office and workplace. If we ever live in the same city, we must rent office space together.
I must get to the writing now. I know that my work today will be fine.
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