Wednesday, September 1, 2010


So, check out this here website: You'll see that the site is in its infancy, but I wanted you to see the lovely pictures of my friend Vicki & where she lives, way off in the Missouri country to the south of here. I wrote a novel once because I wanted to write the book I wish I could've read when I was twelve, when things were so horrible. And then I could always say I'd written a novel, as had my friends, particularly Vicki Grove. I wanted to merit her friendship. Wanted to see if I could finish an entire novel, climb clear up to the top. It, my chapter-book, was published, had its day, but I'm not & never will be one of those who simply must write. Not having done so, will not feel whole. When do I wish to write? When I'm driving down the highway. When I have painting that must be done. When I'm sewing. When I'm reading something splendid: most recently Advise & Consent by Allen Drury. In other words, when I'm not writing. When I must write, I'd ever so much rather read. Let me tell you: Having, pondering a splendid idea for a book is rather like romance. Like dating. Following through, working your way through chapter upon chapter, is something entirely else. Talent w/o resolve, w/o will, w/o consistent industry, is - Well, one must be a good steward of one's gifts, so I learned in Sunday School, back when I was 12, when things were so terrible.
I was going to write a bit of appalled, sorrowful, looking-in-the-rearview-mirror verbiage about the German armies blasting into Poland on this day in history, in 1939, the Golden Year of movies, black & white, but oh well....

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