Diary

Tuesday, March 15 (cont'd)

From: Jack Saunders
To: Big Chief Visions
Subj: Powwow

Is the homegrown powwow going to be a yard party, with artists, musicians, and writers gathering to schmooze, exchange notes, break bread together, or is it going to be a trade fair and crafts show, where artists have booths, and sell their wares to art-lovers, who come hoping to buy a piece of art, a CD, or a book that catches their fancy?

That is, if I set up a card table and sit behind it, hawking merchandise, like a grubby tradesman, will I be making a spectacle of myself? Will I look foolish to other artists who have come to have a good time and not sell their wares? Will I be the 10% that didn't get the word?

I'll come, either way, and bring a dish, and an oyster knife, a Russell/Dexter S-137 with the molded white plastic handle, and a folding lawn chair, like I take to bluegrass festivals, but do I really need to bring a card table with pamphlets and fliers, if I don't have a book?

I will, but not if that's not what other guests had in mind.

Have you publicized the event in The Entertainer? Get your notice in by 5:00 p.m. Tuesday to jmcdonald@pcnh.com. Or is it private, entre-nous, by invitation?

Larry runs his birthday every year. This year he turned 60, and ran 60 miles, in Audubon Park.

Friends ran with him. Tom Sawyer ran all the way, and finished with him.

Congratulations Larry.

Brenda and I went to The Red Bar Sunday.

Dread Clampitt played at Horse Pen 40 Saturday, and got two double encores.

Coastal Homes & Lifestyles did a six-page story on them, with two pages on the band and one page each, with picture, on band members.

The story on the band stressed their musicianship, breadth of material, and relaxed presentation, on stage. Each member is accomplished on his instrument, a good singer, their harmony singing is good, and the songwriting, and covers of other artist's songs, is interesting. They have two CDs of mostly original material and are in the studio, working on a third.

The writer--the publisher of the magazine--said they're hard to classify, but draw fans from many different age groups and tastes. It is what it is. On Sunday at The Red Bar they're the main course.

Edward Abbey said, "You write in a kind of natural, organic, free-flowing and perfectly lucid style that I much admire."

I've been thinking about where this book is going. That is, where it fits in the stack.

It fits in the stack where it fits. Book 258. After DRAGGING UP and before whatever comes next.

But, having said that, what does come next. More of the same, in never-ending stream?

What if I wanted to do something different next? What would I do with POSTCARDS FROM POINT AND SHOOT?

I do want to do something different next. I have the time to do it. Time is not a constraint.

I write so fast I will have written two books about what happened to Bukowski Never Did This before Bukowski Never Did This saw the light of day.

I now think I will combine "Dragging Up" and "Postcard From Point and Shoot" and call them A FORM OF INSANITY.

I was always quick to deny this, sensitive to the charge of being compelled to write, as if being compelled to write took away from the quality of the work, made it less volitional. I wasn't always compelled to write. I made myself compelled to write, on purpose. It's a form of perfectionism, shared by champions in any field. Mario Andretti was compelled to drive racing cars. That doesn't make him less of a race car driver, or less of a person. I write about how I combined that compulsion with having a life outside of writing, with being a good father and a husband and a son. A good employee. I was as good an employee as I was able to be, and still be true to my métier, my call.

I think I'll write about that next. I'll call it VOCATION AND CAREER IN CONFLICT.

Charles Willeford says a writer's life ends when he starts writing. The interesting part of his autobiography is up to the point he makes the plunge. After he starts writing he is just rehashing what got him to that point, trying to figure it out. Exorcise his demons.

It's not a practical thing to do. It takes you over. And there may be no external reward. You might not ever see a payoff.

Also, you are never finished. You're like Sisyphus, rolling his boulder up a hill, to have it tumble down, and have to start again.

It never ends.

It never cuts you any slack.

If it's slack you want, you picked the wrong career field, young airman.

Of the making of many books there is no end.

Maybe I'll call it OF THE MAKING OF MANY BOOKS THERE IS NO END. Instead of A FORM OF INSANITY.

I'm like Larry, running his age every year on his birthday.

It gets harder and harder every year.

Not easier.

POSTCARDS FROM POINT AND SHOOT: AN IMMOBILIZED HERO NOVEL. March 3 - _______. In progress. About the fate of BUKOWSKI NEVER DID THIS and DRAGGING UP in the world. Like Forty, my 40th book, was about the fate of Evil Genius and Open Book. I go to a conference of literary magazines, independent publishers, and writers in Tallahassee, Other Words, sponsored by the Florida Literary Arts Coalition. Anhinga Press, University of Tampa Press, Fiction Collective 2. All three have rejected my books. I get a review copy of Doyle Lawson and Quicksilver's Rounder CD You Gotta Dig a Little Deeper. I buy Bukowski's Slouching Toward Nirvana. I use my painting of a fiddler crab, Uca rapax, on the cover of POSTCARDS FROM POINT AND SHOOT. Keep it in the family. I am invited to a homegrown powwow in the yard of Big Chief Visions, in Cedar Grove, and prepare to attend that. I ordered 250 more copies of Root Doctor. If it comes in time, I'll sell Root Doctor and Dread Clampitt's CDs Dread Clampitt and Wrack & Ruin. If not, I'll give away fliers and the pamphlet 32 Short Reviews of BUKOWSKI NEVER DID THIS. Who's Bukowski? I see that "Dragging Up" and "Postcards From Point and Shoot" combine to form OF THE MAKING OF MANY BOOKS THERE IS NO END, a continuation of, or sequel to, Bukowski Never Did This, like Manon of the Spring was a sequel to, or continuation of, Jean de Florette.

I saw a young woman at The Red Bar yesterday who flirts with me, but in front of Brenda. She's friendly. I wouldn't call it sexual. Brenda isn't threatened by it, or hostile to her, because Brenda trusts me.

She can screw anyone she wants, the young woman, change her major, move to Vail, Colorado. Her life is one of limitless options. She hasn't closed down her possibilities by making bad choices. She has energy. Vigor. She springs back from being knocked down. You could almost envy her.

But I realized yesterday she might envy us, an old married couple who are comfortable with each other, catch each other's jokes, have raised their kids, and don't have anything to worry about except staying healthy. Their kids turned into neat, creative people, not business majors, attorneys, or accountants.

Larry Rivers turned queer because feeling desired made him horny. Men desired him. That was exciting to him.

Having fans makes me a better writer.

It doesn't have to be a stadium full of fans.

A few at The Red Bad, a few in Panama City, a few on the Internet.