Buddy Cushman Art

engaging stories of hope and joy


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Interview With Author W.B. Cushman – Part Two

Following is the second part of an interview conducted by Professor Emeritus Clarrisa Everglad, ftierra-del-mar-2-061rom her home in Orleans, Massachusetts, with Cushman in Portland, Oregon. The interview was conducted by phone. Please see Part One of the interview for details about Everglad’s career in journalism and as an author and interviewer of authors.

 

Everglad: Discombobulated by the cover you had designed? And who is Victoria?

Cushman: I have the technical skills of a snail – probably less. When I realized I was done with Rosy, I’d edited and re-edited, had my wife Susan do a thorough editing, which is a significant skill of hers, and received feedback from my official readers Jamie and Pat, now it was time to publish. Initially I went the traditional route, sending applications and copies of parts of the book to five traditional publishers. All that netted was two formal rejections and three no replies. After a couple of months I decided I needed to self publish, and when I discovered that self-publishing through printing houses was going to cost more than I was able and/or willing to spend, then I had to self publish, go the route of Amazon CreateSpace and Kindle Direct, also making use of the ability to reach more on-line and brick and mortar outlets via IngramSpark (a $49 fee) and Draft2Digital. This is probably unnecessary information, the point is I needed a cover and spine and back cover, and I needed the 52K plus words of Rosy formatted correctly for these companies upload requirements. And I could do none of that. So I turned to Fiverr

Everglad: Fiverr?

Cushman: An internet site where you can hire people, starting at $5, for all kinds of different technical and not so technical services. And reading through various people’s pages I settled on a woman in England named Victoria to create the cover art. It cost me $26, likely the best $26 I’ve spent. She offered unlimited revisions, amazinoriginal-rosy-coverg for that amount of money, beginning her process with what I had messaged her about the book and what I felt would be the best images for the cover. Her first image was vastly different from the one that is the cover of Rosy now. On the right is her first image. Too dark, too much of life left, Teddy and Matt much different than how I saw them. Only Rosy felt right. So I gave her feedback and she made another and this went on, back and forth across The Atlantic, for three weeks, maybe a little more, before I felt it was right. Which included having Marvin with brown skin, which wasn’t there through many of the versions she messaged me. But, long story long enough, to get back to the word “discombobulated”, which goes back to your question about how much I knew my characters before they appeared on the pages, to see her creations of Teddy and Matt, after all the changes, it was a little weird. Because now, when I pick up the book and read various sections, the young men on the cover are who I see when I hear them talking. So, it’s really interesting.

Everglad: I can see that. I’ve never actually had this conversation with an author before. It is interesting.

Cushman: Thanks. I’ve already decided to use Victoria again for my next book, “Astoria Strange“.

Everglad: Is this a book you are planning to write?

Cushman: No. It’s nearly done now. It’s a collection of stories, interwoven in their setting and sharing of characters, set in Astoria, Oregon, a small town on the Ocean about 100 miles from where I live. They’re told from the point of view of stories in a newspaper column that focus on subjects outside of what would be considered normal. Anyway, I’m working on the final story. When I’m done there’s going to be a significant re-write and editing process. When it’s all done I’ll hire Victoria again for the cover and back cover art.

Everglad: Is this book something you began after you’d finished Ring Around the Rosy?

Cushman: No. I began Astoria long before I started the story for the submission request that would evolve into Rosy. Close to two and a half years ago now.

Everglad: And you are hoping to have this book completed and published sometime this year?

Cushman: My goal is to have it published before the end of April.

Everglad: Now that would be quite the accomplishment, Mr. Cushman. Not publishing anything until age 67, then having a second book out less than six months later.

Cushman: It will be very cool if I get it done.

Everglad: Will this be a book similar in length to your first?

Cushman: It’s already nearly three times longer than Rosy, just over 150,000 words so far. Three of the stories, including the one I’ve been trying to finish for months now, are nearly the size of small novellas. Fortunately the stories are meant to be read one at a time, and many are, in fact, typical short story length.

Everglad: I’d like to talk more about the new book in a few moments, if we can, it’s a surprising addition to the breath of the interview’s original intention. But, let’s get back to your Rosy.

Cushman: Professor, if you’ll indulge me for just another minute, I want to reference a particular aspect of Astoria to expand on a point I was making a while ago about, what for me is the joy of writing fiction. Not only from creating something from nothing, something that wasn’t there before – a person, a coffee shop, a factitious newspaper – but also getting to play while doing it. Getting to goof on myself, which is really it, to play while writing, to flash on different times in my life and different people I’ve met and known along the way. And to bring those people, I don’t mean them or any of their personality, but to borrow their name as I create someone knew. I keep using the word thrilling because that’s how it feels.  So, to make the point, in the third of my “Astoria” stories I introduced a new character, a female police officer named Ruthie Thompkins. I needed a name for an officer right there in the story and this name popped into my head. But I didn’t make it up. Back in my high school in Wareham, Massachusetts, probably about 50 miles or less from where you live Clarrisa, there was a math teacher, head of the math department, names Ruth Thompkins. Lots of the kids in school called her Ruthie. So, I’m needing the name for a female officer and trying to think up a good one, and the name Ruthie Thompkins flies into my head and I go ahead and type that. So, I borrowed on a piece of my childhood. And that’s what I’m talking about, because there’s something in the doing that weaves my entire life together, make it richer in some kind of way, and, I used this word before, honors a time in my life.

Everglad: I do understand what you’re saying, Mr. Cushman. One of the joys of writing fiction.

Cushman: Here’s the last thing about that. And this comes more under the idea of seeing where the story takes me, which you asked me about earlier. I typed the name Ruthie Thompkins because I needed a name, a one-time name. But, honestly, to my surprise, Officer Ruthie Thompkins showed up two stories later, again primarily in passing. But, two stories after that, in a story titled “Rat Boy“, not only is Ruthie driving her cruiser onto the pages again, but now, by the end of that story, she’s become a much more important player. So, there’s no surprise to me when, over the final three stories, she plays key roles. She’s become one of the primary characters. And she showed up, originally, because I needed a name and I remembered a name from my high school.

End of Part Two

 


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A Day, A Daydream

spoonful-1I awoke one day early last week with these words on my lips: “There’s something special ’bout six o’clock.” They were just there, no reason to be, I have no explanation. Then a couple of days later someone commenting on a previous Blog I’d written about The Byrds said this: “I was a Byrd’s fan, possibly as an extension of The Lovin’ Spoonful, my high school heroes, taking “Magic” and “Darling Companion” to a psychedelic level.

Hmmm. Two distinct Spoonful flashbacks out of the clear blue on an anonymous week in September. Where else to go, but here.

First this: “Darling Be Home Soon”   www.youtube.com/watch?v=fXjzOpz4Cyw

There was something very special about the music playing through radio speakers and on turntables when I was a kid. Maybe everyone feels that, I suppose they do, some type of ‘imprinting’. Our open to experience, fresh ears, big eyes, the dancing, the singing along in a friend’s car, gunning it through back roads, cranking up the sound in the beach parking lot. Summer days, radio days, good days. That’s how I remember it, and that time and place and the scene with all its sensory input, it comes back when I hear those sounds. Those songs. And how could you ever go wrong, or failed to be thrilled, with the songs of The Lovin’ Spoonful.

Listen: “Daydream“, “Summer in the City“, “You Didn’t Have To Be So Nice“, “Rain on the Roof“, “She Is Still a Mystery“, “Did You Ever have To Make Up Your Mind?“, “Darling Be Home Soon“, “Do You Believe in Magic?“, the aforementioned “Six O’Clock”.

John Sebastion, Zal Yanofsky, Steve Boone, Joe Butler – They burst on the scene in 1965 with “Magic” and were done as a foursome with 1970s “Younger Generation“. Do you know that last one? “And hey pop, my girlfriend’s only three. She’s got her own video phone and she’s taking LSD.” Like them or not, those lyrics could never have been written in any other time. If you’ve never heard this wonderful song, here’s your chance:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=MbPiWwNeiKE 

Two songs reached #2  in the Billboard 100 – “Daydream” and “Make Up Your Mind” – and one made it all the way to the top – “Summer in the City“. Maybe of interest or not, but for a fun reference and blast from the past, here are the top 10 songs in The United States the week ending August 13th, 1966, when “Summer” took the top spot: 1) Summer in the City; 2) Lil’ Red Riding Hood – Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs; 3) They’re Coming To Take Me Away, Ha-Haa – Napolean XIV; 4) Wild Thing – The Troggs; 5) The Pied Piper – Crispian St. Peters; 6) I Saw Her Again – The Mamas and the Papas; 7) Sunny – Bobby Hebb; 8) Mother’s Little Helper – The Rolling Stones; 9) Somewhere My Love – Ray Coniff and the Singers; 10) Sweat Pea – Tommy Roe. The Spoonful’s “Summer” held the top spot for three weeks that summer, and was joined in the top 10 during that time by “I Couldn’t Live Without Your Love” – Petula Clark, “Sunshine Superman” – Donovan, “See You in September” – The Happenings, “You Can’t Hurry Love” – The Supremes, “Yellow Submarine” – The Beatles, and “Summertime” – Billy Stewart. You remember that one – Bdddddddddddddddddddd  Ha!  www.youtube.com/watch?v=l2J5FjopWqM

spoonful-2So, here:

You Didn’t Have To Be So Nice”  www.youtube.com/watch?v=9iyBhPzuZZc

 

Do You Believe in Magic?”  www.youtube.com/watch?v=MGCVwk6bgeo

 

Anyway, this began with me waking up the other day with some Lovin’Spoonful lyrics the first thought I had, 5:35 in the morning, on my way to the chair and the coffee pot and the recliner and the books and the morning pages and all of it.  This song:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=pTGTOHeegDo

What’s your favorite Spoonful song? Please leave anspoonful-4answer in the Comments.


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Bread Crumbs

The guy behind the counter was playing jazz when I took my coffee to a chair in the Just Bob Coffee Shop on Alberta in Northe20160916_142455_hdrast Portland last Friday. It was just after two in the afternoon, and while there was the occasional customer lining up at the take-out counter, most of the seats in the shop were empty. Mostly I didn’t hear the jazz music playing, and when it would intrude into my consciousness every once in a while, I’d ignore it. Jazz is not my thing. It’s funny, my non-appreciation of that purely American music form, because it was a favorite of The Beat writers, including Jack Kerouac, one of the writers I most revere, and try to borrow from as a writer. He wrote like jazz, these long, often connectedly discombobulated riff of words, sometimes making up new words to suit the flavor of the riff. Like jazz.keruoac

Which isn’t really the point, other than saying I love Kerouac and don’t like jazz.

There was a woman sitting in one of the three stuffed chairs in the shop — I was in another, facing her — and she was reading a paperback book, a softcover to be exact, and squinting my eyes I could see the title of the book was “Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together In the Cafeteria?” She herself was a black woman, young, maybe mid 30s, and was taking notes in a bound notebook like the one I carried in. Mine was for recording any ideas I could brainstorm for the 11th and final story in my collection of Astoria, Oregon tales. (None happened to arrive while I was there.) So, I shifted tasks, and asked The Universe for ideas for future Blog posts — like this one — and the thought came to me to play detective — Buddy Cushman, Coffee Shop Sleuth — and follow the woman’s book wherever it would lead me.

When I got home, it took quite a while from NE way down to SE where I live, with Friday afternoon city traffic, but it was sunny and hot and I was playing, very loudly, one Tower of Power song after another, so the trip was not only tolerable but, in fact, a wicked blast, rolling, singing, howling, party on wheels (think The 52s “Love Shack” www.youtube.com/watch?v=9SOryJvTAGs ) Anyway, at the computer dr-tatumI googled the book from Just Bob’s and learned it is a highly valued thought piece on race and race identity and relations in the Country, collective experiences and perspectives written by Dr. Beverly Daniel Tatum, the President of Spelman College in Georgia. Here is a ten and a half minute review, very thorough and interesting, of the book and its author. It’s worth a look and listen:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=y_l5bO9KZrY&list=PLlFqqfHxQmjOGUX3oN6On3kJW253lUGRx     I now have the book on order from The Multnomah County Library system.

What can be more important than how we live with, and value, each other?

The woman with the book left before me, and I sat there looking at the sun stream through the multiple front windows of the shop. At some point the barista behind the counter changed the music and I instantly recognized the opening descending bass and violins of The Left Banke’s “Walk Away Renee”. Hard to imagine anyone doesn’t know the song, and certainly anyone who grew up in the 60s. I mean, the empty sidewalks on my block are not the same.

I was struck, wleft-bankehen “Pretty Ballerina” came on a couple of songs later, about the so-often-highlighted black and whiteness of the world — of the day. The woman and her book, it’s black title, and now a thoroughly ‘white’ sounding pop group from 1965 New York City. After another song I walked up to the counter and asked the guy what exactly he was playing. Turns out it was a “best of” collection by The Left Banke called ‘There’s Gonna Be a Storm: the Complete Recordings 1966 – 1969’. A
couple of songs , white poppy little things, stood out to me — I’d never heard them, shame on me, especially working in a record store most of those years and holding The Banke’s debut album in my hands many times. So here they are, for your listening enjoyment, and maybe they are long-time favorites. “She May Call You Up Tonight”:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=EZSlF2AkrS4   and “Let Go Of You Girl”:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=POdiO1xOg-E

Way cool. And maybe all this matters not a wit to anyone but me, Buddy Cushman – Coffee Shop Sleuth. Oh well. And by the way, as Oakland’s Tower of Power — a strong example of what glory we can get when you combine black and white — since they helped me along my way home, I’ll end with one from them. Thanks for showing up.

“So Very Hard To Go”:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=t9BRqGpppJw

tower-of-power-19731


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Younger Than Yesterday

A couple of weeks ago I heard a song by The Byrds on the car radio. Can’t remember where I was, maybe cruising on Woodstock heading up to the coffee shop, or down Cesar Chavez. The sun was shining at the time, a gentle breeze flowing in through the open windows. It wasn’t 1965, but it almost could have been, as I bought my first ever car in October of ’65, a Byrds 6
1955 Plymouth from a guy named George in New Bedford. It could have been, other than the car ownership thing, because The Byrds were – and remain – all about 1965. And ’66.

The Byrds had burst on the Los Angeles music scene in the Spring of ’65 with their jingly jangly psychedelia cover version of  Bob Dylan’s “Mr. Tambourine Man” : www.youtube.com/watch?v=Swqw5a8I4b4 . I suppose a Dylan purist might like the original better, but I can’t say I do. There was something mesmerizing and soothing and clearly peace and loving with the harmonies and the arrangement and the chimey, chords and individual notes from Roger McGuinn’s 12-string Rickenbacker guitar.

If you consider The Beach Boys a milieu of their own, a milieu of surf, The Byrds were America’s answer to The Beatles. Following in their footsteps, growing the LA Sound, would come Buffalo Springfield and The Doors and Arthur Lee and Love, and that’s just LA. But it was The Byrds that brought forth a new sound, and gave a 16 year old dreamer like me something more to dream on.

We know the hits — “Mr. Tambourine Man”, “Turn Turn Turn”, “Eight Miles High”, “Mr. Spaceman”, “So You Want To Be a Rock ‘n’ Roll Star”, later on the wonderfully amazing cover versions of Dylan’s “My Back Pages”  and Gerry Goffin and Carole King’s “Going Back”. If you don’t know those songs, if you haven’t been buzzed and jingled and etherealized by those songs, well, a wicked big Duuuuh. Rush to your laptop or desktop and spend the next half hour under their 60s spell.

For this post I’m interested in the B sides, the album cuts, some other tunes frByrds 1om McGuinn and band-mates Gene Clark, David Crosby, Chris Hillman, and Michael Clarke. Like these that follow, all songs that helped me along my way, all favorites, all gifts.

“The Bells of Rhymney”, a Pete Seeger song:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=u6JhTSzZXzg 

“I’ll Fell a Whole Lot Better” :  www.youtube.com/watch?v=to-RVV_3anw 

“Set You Free This Time” :  www.youtube.com/watch?v=9QSTy3fkWSA

“Have You Seen Her Face” :  www.youtube.com/watch?v=YHOgkj7OuvQ        If you’d never heard this one before, now doesn’t your life feel bigger, and better? Doesn’t it?

“I Knew I’d Want You’ :  www.youtube.com/watch?v=eGLRV887bHE

and the aforementioned “Goin’ Back” :  www.youtube.com/watch?v=pqHb7RFpoxU   Such an LA  breezy, warm, canyon sound. With a later Byrds lineup.

“A little bit of courage is all we lack. So catch me if you can I’m going back.”  Goffin/King

People are always putting down the 60s now. It’s de rigueur.  Oh well. You know what they say:
“No, and I ain’t lookin’ to fight with you
Frighten you or uptighten you
Drag you down or drain you down
Chain you down or bring you down
All I really want to do
Is, baby, be friends with you ”            www.youtube.com/watch?v=tIEV1OanDGY

Byrds 7

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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Fear and Hoping From the Basement – Storytelling

This is my today story. My Sunday story. But, first a brief note on everyday.

I get up at 5:30 a.m., my wife turning off the alarm and, she tells me, touching the warm spot where I have been in the bed. I drag on some clothes, go to the bathroom and splash water on my face, then head downstairs. There is a straight-back, dining-room chair I have placed in the middle of the living room the night before, and for the next 13 to 25 minutes I sit in the chair, the goal being to meditate, and think about a whole bunch of whatever it is that shows up today. When I’m done I go turn on the coffee, while waiting I usually go outside and look at the sunrise or lingering darkness in the winter, then I take the first of my two cups of coffee to the pinkish, mauve-colored recliner I bought for $40 (delivery included) on Craigslist when I first moved to Portland seven and a half years ago. Reclining there, I read something I consider to fall beneath the broad umbrella of ‘spiritual’.blog pic

Now today. Sunday. I read from three books that I checked out at the library yesterday – actually I checked out five, but two cups of coffee only go so far. This morning I read the ‘Introductions‘ to these three: “The Right to Write” by Julia Cameron; “Bagombo Snuff Box” by Kurt Vonnegut; and “Thunder and Lightning” by Natalie Goldberg. Last night I’d brought upstairs “Maps and Legends” by Michael Chabon to the other recliner in tkurt-vonneguthe house, the blue one that belonged to my mother Irene and was gifted to me when she died 11 years ago, and which I have dragged across the length of these United States three times since then. I began reading the first story (there is no Introduction) of the Chabon book about 10:45, but between the smothering heat on the second floor and the length of a long day the words began dancing before my eyes, and I quickly gave it up and went in to sleep , no covers, beside my already sleeping wife.

I checked these particular books out yesterday – the fifth being “The Pocket Muse, Endless Inspiration” by Monica Wood – because my step-daughter Marie and I are heading off on our second annual “Writer’s Retreat” next Sunday foIMG_6634r four days, to a cottage partially owned by Marie’s Dad (meaning we get a big discount)  which sits not four hundred yards from the Pacific, to write stories (and in my case edit already written stories). The five books, which are all coming along, will serve as anchors and inspirers and rectangular muses and anything else they wish to be, and we will write in timed writing periods throughout the days and take long walks on the fabulous beach and deal with my cooking and watch DVDs we bring (with my fave “Super 8”   www.youtube.com/watch?v=tCRQQCKS7go   among them).

Because writers we are, and writing is what we do. I’m an artist – as is Marie – and I have a brand new Artist Web Page ( www.buddycushmanfineart.com ), and I go on long walks and have a long career in human services and administration and even an original music CD to my name. Yet, after all the meanderings and dead ends and geographical cures and flights of fancy that make up the 67 plus years of my life through this morning, I’m a teller of stories first and foremost. A story teller. Hence the writers retreat. Hence the blog. Hence the telegraph avelibrary.

And then there’s this.  A musical story by The Stories for the song of the week:    www.youtube.com/watch?v=aJxZL9L6YWc        And here is author Michael Chabon talking about my favorite book of his, “Telegraph Ave” and the 1970s:     www.youtube.com/watch?v=WvgjhwuxKeE       And, lastly, here the wondrous Kurt Vonnegut takes a minute and a half to explain his “Eight Rules” for writing a story.  www.youtube.com/watch?v=nmVcIhnvSx8

I ‘d like to mention these books as well – Natalie Goldberg’s “Writing Down the Bones” and Julia Cameron’s “The Artist Way” – as having profound influence on my storytelling life.

My Monday blog appearing Sunday this week, just because.

Do you have a story to tell?

 


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Who Are Your Friends?

Sitting in the recliner early this morning, with coffee and a copy of Elizabeth Gilbert’s “Big Magic”, I got to thinking about the people in my life, and more specifically, the color of the pimageseople in my life. It’s a current topic for thought, what with the incredibly sad events of this last week, and further back in time. Where there has been much discussion and suggestion and confrontation regarding the idea of walking a mile in my shoes.  Regarding that just maybe you, whoever you are, haven’t got a clue what it’s like to live and shop and sell and drive and gather and sing and worship, for that matter, in my shoes.

So I got to thinking about my life, and the people in it, mostly the people currently in it, but back all along the way too. And I thought that I would try to get a little analytical about it, though me and analysis are usually like the Hatfields and McCoys. Anyway, what better place to begin my search for the reality of my people milieu than in that friendliest of friend places of all — Facebook.

As of this morning I have 408 “Friends” on my Facebook page. I italicize the word because, I’m imagining like most people on FB, some of my friends are more like friends I haven’t met yet, in my case other artists and writers, the occasional friend of a friend, people from various locations along the way, etc, etc. I came down into the basement, here, to the computer, found a blank sheet of scrap paper, and began tallying up the exact specifics of just who make up my friends today.

Of my 408 Facebook friends, 20 are black. That works out to just under 5%. If I add in friends of Hispanic heritage, and the artists I’ve befriended along the internet way from Iraq, India, Portugal, and Japan, the total of my so-called non-white friends, I find that a little less than 9% are non-Caucasian — not Honkeys, if that resonates more.

Within the current population of the United States, the number of African-Americans totals 13.2% So I’m nowhere near representative of who my neighbors in the Country are. And speaking of neighbors, if I were to take a walk out my front door the chances are that I am not going to come along and wish a good morning hello to anyone with any color other than white for a face. Or when I sit in my favorite coffee shop.  Or at the local Trader Joe’s. In fact, I’d have to drive way up to NE Portland and North Portland to have a good chance of meeting a person of another race. Specifically, black people make up 6.3% of the Portland, OR population. And most live together.

There’s more. The black population percentage in the entire state of Oregon is 2% — TWO. In my home state of Massachusetts, black people make up 8.1% of the Commonwealth’s population, and in my adopted, wannabe home state of California, the number is 6.2%. By the way, it just might be so low in my current home state of Oregon because Oregon, in its statehood inception, not once but twice passed laws barring any people of a darker color from even moving into the state.

Then I went through my high school yearbook this morning. There were 119 of us in it graduating as the class of 1967 at Wareham High School, and of those 119, 20 — that’s 17% — were children of color. Better — and that’s the right word, the expansive, illuminating word — than any place I’ve noted above. That was us, the Class of ’67, WHS, all God’s children. And I am ever grateful that’s where I grew up, or at least started getting older.

I lived in Oakland, CA for a while, and visited there a couple of months ago. Black lives make up 28% of the current population of Oakland, and all I had to do was walk out my friend Gavin’s front apartment building door to begin my immersion into a world of color, on the sidewalks, at the Whole Foods, around Lake Merritt. Everywhere. And the fact of the matter is I felt energized and stimulated and bigger, even. And grateful.

The title of this blog post, and I wasn’t really writing it about me, is “Who Are Your Friends?” So I’ll ask my white Facebook friends to, right now, take a couple of minutes and tally up your percentages. My guess is that most of you won’t even come up with my sorry percent of 5% of black friends. I’d like to be wrong, but I bet I’m not. I don’t say that as a Yay for me or a Boo for you. I say it because it’s something to think about the next time we, any of us, think we know how it is for someone else, someone who looks different from us, and that you can at least consider that, well, maybe you don’t. Because how much practice are you getting?

Driving while black? – there’s a new phrase appearing in my world. I don’t know what that’s like. Maybe some of my friends can help me understand it a little better. Maybe some of your friends can help you.

If we bother to just talk with each other some more. And listen.


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Monday Morning Pages — Notebook Number 29

I started reading “The Great Gatsby” downstairs in the recliner this morning, early, and twenty-five minutes later began thinking I really know next to nothing and have paid almost no attention in most of the years of my life, and have forgotten nearly all of the things I did see and half-heartedly committed to memory. In other words, so I’ll never be a writer. This follows the rejection I received last night of my most recent short story, the feedback being very direct and clear, with little encouragement.

So now today beings with me having to push through the mush of ancient stories — stories that say I’m not good enough and I’ll never be good enough and why kid myself of any hope to be a successful writer. Yes, those old as the hills stories, the genre of “who am I kidding”.

So there are two choices — and the older I get the more I am coming to believe that there are only two choices in every situation, kind of a yes and a no thing — in this case accepting that I will never write anything that will engage and entertain a large group of readers, large defined as in the thousands and really in the tens of thousands, and so why kid myself. Go on and do something else at which you will have a better chance for some success — though at this point in my life I have no idea what that might be. Or, door number two, carry on my wayward son. Keep on keepin’ on. Try, as Janis, said, just a little bit harder.

Now, practically speaking,  on the one hand I am early morning comparing my writing ability — if there’s really any of that at all — with F. Scott Fitzgerald’s. So there is that. And on the other hand — and as Henry David Thoreau said, I talk so much about me because I know no other subject so well — I have a six decades history of rarely plunging all the way in, with everything I’ve got, to whatever it is I’m on to now. Which now, in this now case, is writing. Being a writer. So give up because I’m just not very good and almost certainly not good enough. Or try just a little bit harder.

Actually the choice feels clear. Since 2011 when I left my somewhat jokingly defined “career” in human services, I have met a guy and co-wrote and created a CD of original music; picked up a paint brush and painted some paintings and had some shows and sold some greeting cards; and taken a creative writing class at Portland State and embarked on a path with some very specific goals to become a successful writer. Maybe not as good or successful as F. Scott Fitzgerald or the authors I like to read, but successful still.

This feels like the last house on the left on a dead-end street. And so, I write on.