Thanksgiving Day. I wake up with the writing
roaring in my head. Eat your heart out, Papa.
Mariel Hemingway writes about Woody Allen
visiting her parents in Ketchum, Idaho. They went for
a walk and ate birds one of them had shot. They went
to bed early. They had to get up the next day.
Writing is not a competition. Move to New York.
Woody taught himself to be a stand-up comedian
so he could write and direct movies. I taught myself
to be a tech writer so I could write books of poetry.
Holidays are for working, Marc Chagall said.
He was jealous of Picasso and Matisse.
I have a ringing in my ears.
I've had it since the boys
were kids. We'll see them today.
And the grandchildren. I cleaned the house
and Brenda baked a turkey and made a hoecake
in a skillet. This morning she will make a dressing
and giblet gravy with a mushroom off her log.
If the car won't start we'll take her truck.
I can't think of any writers I am jealous of.
Hemingway's dead. The king is dead,
long live the king. Bukowski's dead.
I am the king of daily typewriting.
I write a little ahead in case I get behind.
It's not an exact science.
I am the King of Hick Lit.