West Coast Hearts by Thomas A. Morgan

June Reminders

Well, yes, it's been a while since I updated this. It's really a question of having the time; I was in the throes of a move, which, if you've done it, you know it knocks you out. Nevertheless, here we are.

Been reworking in earnest parts of West Coast Hearts, as I was struck with some great inspiring incidences. Needless to say, they will be augmented to accommodate the tale. But the takeaway is that the scenes and incidences definitely work in the scheme.

Went back and re-read parts of Richard Yates' masterful Revolutionary Road. I know I've mentioned that thing in here; it's an extraordinary and timeless novel.

Yates was a great observer. His later novel, The Easter Parade, is equally interesting and compelling though I admit that Road is a far more interesting and postmodern, and certainly more tragic.

What is the California novel, anyway, and what does it tell us?

California is a huge place. Even when you get as far north as San Francisco you've still got several hundred miles until Oregon. It's a state of transitions; none of it never really looks like any other part; the southland is hot and dry and desertlike; the mid coast is awash in drowsy light and rolling hills; the Bay Area is a clear, shining beacon enshrouded sometimes in a forgetful, timeless fog; Wine country is completely out of reach; and the rest of it northward is ageless farmland. It's an extraordinary place.

So I would imagine there are many stories to this storied state. It is truly a "west of The West" place, and I think all Californians will take that.

We recently drove off the Ventura Freeway inland, about 10 or so miles, to Ojai where we had coffee and slipped back in time that part of the Golden State that I love. It's here I wish to find myself again. And it's here that I began to rethink this writing project.

It will be a tragedy, as I've always thought. It will painted against the heartbreaking beauty of this state. And in the end you will be breathless.

Quills & Silent Beats

A world of springtimes on the west coast. It smells fresh, like April has arrived, and not a moment too soon. It's been, oddly, a long winter--even for California terms. There were periods of warmth and pockets of chill but on the whole the Southland survived, and here we are.

Been working a lot lately. Mostly on a play, called Henry Swann's Limoges. I've not given up on West Coast Hearts; I think it'll be a more in-depth project and having blocked out a couple of possible conclusions, I admit that I haven't decided which one I like the best; they all work; one has to work better than the others.

And so, to take a break from it (novel writing is really tiring, having written three and having now silvered gracefully) and work on a play (which I find very relaxing, actually) has been like wading through a grotto, and arriving at a moonlit beach.

Speaking of plays, I've begun to re-draft MILFord, and have done some producing research on the project. I expect to complete this next draft by the end of the month.

Yes, and those are the kinds of kindling that fans the story. As I've said, I've written three versions of the first act and am not entirely convinced that any of them works. And so the writing simply continues.

The other day I heard from my lit agent, who mentioned that both Dryline Rhapsody and North Of Here are headed back out to publishers. It's such a crazy, drawn-out process; I'm seriously considering taking matters into my own hands and self-publishing the latter just to test the audience. Stay tuned here or at the other blog for more details on how to get your hands on these masterpieces.

And so evening comes. This is when the fog generally glazes over the canyons and arroyos in this part of SoCal. It's beautiful. Then the temperature drops quickly. I'm always amazed at this; I'm amazed at a lot of things out here.

Ides Of March, Etc.

Well, it's been a while since I posted and it's got nothing at all to do with laziness or being uninspired. Life's continued; Super Tuesday came and went; it was cold, it was warm, it became cold again. There were hints of rain but that passed. Then there was snow on the distant San Gabriel Mountains; you could see them all the way from down here in south OC.

Actually, the writing's what's taking up my time as of late. West Coast Hearts has been fits and starts, and that's alright because all writing is hard work, and I work for a living, so I have to carve out my own time to work on these things. But I have laid plans for this novel and expect to jump in to complete it sometime later in the year.

E.M. Forster said, "Books have to be read (worst luck, for it takes a long time); it is the only way of discovering what they contain." Indeed. He goes on to say, "The reader must sit down alone and struggle with the writer..." This is an intriguing idea since I've often said that writing is sometimes a struggle but I'm glad that Forster at least recognized in his masterful Aspects of the Novel that "Literature is written by geniuses. Novelists are geniuses." I'm sure he lumped himself in there, and why shouldn't he? Although his output was very small (six novels) he was an excellent writer, as evidenced by Howards End and A Passage To India.

But that's what writers do. We read a lot and we write. We talk about writing and the books we've read. We discover new writers and share them with others who're on the same train. Hopefully we get over the publish-or-perish thing; I did and segued into marketing as a career. What I write and publish now and in the next couple of years is essentially my retirement platform.

West Coast Hearts is to be my critique of California life. I've seen a lot in the past decade out here and have done much to help or hinder my career, well-being, and sanity. But mostly it's been a joyful ride and it continues into this evening. There's no shortage of drama out here, as it turns out; it's not the kind that I may've known in New York or New England, but it's definitely its own. It's California. It's bigger. It's west of the West, and it defines us.

So work continues. Meanwhile Dryline Rhapsody, that completed masterpiece that was sent via postal to my literary agent, is under consideration. "It's a waiting game," the agent told me. I didn't ask what publisher, only accepted (per the agent) that it was "one of the major New York publishers." That's fine. I'll take it. Then I got to work and completed MILFord, a play, which in many ways is a bookend to West Coast Hearts. That first draft was sent to the agent; he's heavily involved in theater, and I admit that was the motivation to write the thing. (I was accepted into the Los Angeles Wordsmiths playwriting program years ago--a city-sponsored writing group that has transformed into something else in recent years--so I've tinkered with playwriting, though nothing quite as large as this. I recommend it; it's very relaxing.)

Which brings me to the end of this post. Now we're up to date. Now we uncork the wine. Because it wouldn't be California without it.

OK--But Define "Tragedy"

Tragedy? What's tragic is the amount of web space, printer's ink, and felled trees just to cover this crap!

I had thought that an institution like Rolling Stone would have avoided the temptation to cover the Britney Spears mess but seeing how they're Rolling Stone, and the rag just ain't what it used to be it's no surprise they they are. But whatever it takes to get circulation up, I guess.

Medicated pop stars are as old as rock&roll. Most of the great jazz and blues musicians that stumbled around before them were as equally f*cked up on smack, uppers, or even just railroad gin. But there's nothing more vacant than a dim-bulb blonde staggering into infinity, and then having a media complex force it down your throat 24/7. I don't know that there's any lesson we haven't heard already and, really, the media outlet that airs her untimely death will surely get some kind of reward (not to mention what the paparazzi's take is going to be).

So, are we sad? And what's so tragic? Homegirl was pulling down some serious money--still! Yes, money doesn't buy happiness, etc., but we're forced to care because record companies create things like Ms. Spears, churn out lord knows how much in revenue, then the contracts flood in and what was once presumably a normal kid--albeit robbed of a childhood, apparently--is now a millionaire in some Hollywood mansion. Enter the medication!

I don't know. And then Rolling Stone covers her in the current issue. Yes, Spears is a trainwreck (so are most actors, writers, producers, reporters, linemen, presidents, senators, pilots, soldiers, etc). Yes, she bones some dude in a dressing room (doesn't that sound normal?). She buys a new car ever month (haven't done that yet!). She drinks lattes, for cryin' out loud!! She's not crazy! We're the crazy ones!

Then the bible thumpers are gonna say that Hollywood did this. That could be true. Britney was, after all, a southern girl with (again, presumably) values. They're gonna say that she was "robbed of her childhood." There could be truth to that too. I was allowed to run around the woods and fields in New Hampshire till all hours. It was very Robert Frost; these were different times; people read books because there were only three channels on the tube; farm girls were...

So, a tragedy? Define tragedy. Is hers the face that launched a thousand ships? If so, then yes. If not, pack sand. And, anyway, when she goes to live on some oasis in Dubai we will have forgotten about her altogether.

Al of this, my friends, is at the core of West Coast Hearts.

Cupids & Cartouches

All writers are observers, and nothing more. When I was a young man, I thought it glamorous to be a writer. Back then gas was less than $1 a gallon, cigarettes ran you $.65 a pack, and all the problems in the world seemed to be happening someplace else. California, to me at least, was just as distant as the other side of tomorrow, and tomorrow never seemed to come.

Of course, I'm idealizing the past. We all do. It seemed a simple place. The good guys wore white, bad guys wore black. Computers were still made stateside, everyone seemed to have money (that was the illusion, anyway) and the movies weren't solely plotted around what wizards, gnats, and gypsies did. CGI didn't really exist yet, and neither did the current Administration. No, it was a utopia of sorts.

Like I said, California was as distant as the other side of tomorrow. It was a far-off place that had so fewer people than it does today that I can't even imagine what all the empty spaces of south Orange County looked like. None of the madness was here yet. I wonder then, sometimes, what was the tipping point?

It's easy to blame the Internet for some things. I mean, really, it opened up a Pandora's Box of sorts and while it's certainly responsible for bringing people together I feel as though it's equally responsible for pushing people apart.

Internet has it's own language. Some of that language trickles down into fadlike vernacular, as in MILF. I recently completed a stage play that subtexts the whole MILF thing. It started as a comedy but as I continued writing I realized that the jokes weren't really working for the context; granted, I'm pretty funny but if you tune in to Dateline's To Catch a Predator show, you'll see just how f*ckin' sad people can be, and how lonely and pathetic the Internet can make some.

I don't know. Worked on some chapters of West Coast Hearts and felt I had hit a breakthrough. This wouldn't be an overnight project. There's a lot more commentary. But I am distracted by life these days.

A while back I began to outline this thing  but then stopped to revise Dryline Rhapsody and North of Here. Those two novel manuscripts were subsequently sent off to NY. Then started working on MILFord and No Daylight. Now that those two are in the can, I found a plot course I could extend into West Coast Hearts, and so have thrown myself into it with earnest.

All writing starts when you stop to listen. It's hard work but it is worth it. It may turn some into millionaires or simply be a labor of love. The outcome remains to be seen.

Sidebar: Shoot Your Radio

Jeez, I mean, people will talk about anything to keep their flock scared. I was on my way to the movies last night and flipped through the channels on the am dial trying to pick up a sports show when I landed on some guy evangelizing the death of actor Heath Ledger. He quoted some Starkbucks barista, who said (and I'm paraphrasing here) that Ledger was seen a lot in his NY neighborhood with his daughter on his shoulders and that he [Ledger] "seemed like a great father."

You can probably see where I'm going with this. The radio host, who admitted to being a conservative, ranted about how Ledger overdosed, and how could he possibly have been a good father if he was on drugs? Now, this is a California radio station here. Understandably it's a conservative talk show targeted specifically to his audience, with the same old tired references to drugs are bad, actors (who are mostly liberals or at least libertarians) are f*cked up, and Hollywood is a cesspool.

Most of that is true. But alcohol is more destructive than sleeping pills, and someone's husband's dead and it might've been an accident, so shut up.

I don't know Heath Ledger apart from the hit-or-miss career he's had as an actor; I don't care in the least about his demons and personal life because I have my own. I do think his performance in Brokeback Mountain was extraordinary; Knight's Tale was a terrible movie but I blame the writers.

No, the tragedy of this whole mess is he was young but the fact is he had a career in an industry that deconstructs people. And now radio hosts and bloggers like myself have something to talk about. Thankfully, I don't gossip on this thing. I talk about my writing projects West Coast Hearts and occasionally Dryline Rhapsody and North of Here. No, I talk about me. And I'm not dead. Yet.

Overheard At Night

Years ago I sat down at my beat up laptop--a Micron that weighed at least eight pounds--and started writing a story about an incident at Big Bear Lake. It was called "Fawnskin" and would become, really, the beginning of the West Coast Hearts cycle wherein I now find myself.

The story (linked for your convenience) is about a guitar player who is picked up in some bar after gigging then makes a break for it the following morning. It's the antithesis of glamor--something I've noticed exists in abundance on the frays of Hollywood.

We some of us are perpetually yoked to the Camaros of our lives. That was one of the themes on the story. The protagonist, Kit Burton, won't ever be anything but a vision that arrives in some mountain town and to whom a woman will attach herself because, ultimately, even mountain towns can't hold anyone down.

West Coast Hearts is much larger than this. It's taken a while to meander the floe but I do believe I'm inching closer to the end of the project in that I know what tragedy the group endures in order to be part of the larger story of California.

We're all observers and while we none us can really be Buddhists these days--we're too busy living in the fantasy of packaged beliefs and imported nomenclature, and not in the strange sometimes sad reality that is California--there is still a "golden state" at the end of every tale. That's where Dorothea Rose will find herself when it's all said and done. Whether or not she still has the gun remains to be seen.

And in case you're wondering what the update is on North of Here and Dryline Rhapsody, just click thru.

Selective Memory

West Coast Hearts was more than a story to me. No, to me it was a reaction. I look back over my notes (admittedly I've been sidelined with other rewrites, such as the ones I did with Dryline Rhapsody, North of Here, and to various screenplays, etc.) and have considered the many options and roads I could go down with the telling of this tale. Granted, it's a novel, and no matter who you ask, they're not easy to write. But once you put aside the romantic notions of what novel writing are you can get on with the actual story, and this I have done.

This novel has been ruminating in the background for more than a year. The beauty of that is I've been allowed the time to really take a hard look at my current surroundings (Orange County) and sift through the detritus of life down here to really stick a fork in the tale I wish to tell. I want to sensationalize something, since everything down here is so sensational; one has to merely sit in a Starbuck's on the PCH for an hour or less to begin to hear tales of the lives of others, and they're almost always sordid.

So much misery in a such a beautiful place. I drew inspiration from Richard Yates' masterful Revolutionary Road, which was published in the early 60s. That was the type of immediateness I was looking for: self-destruction in the beautiful suburbs. Only in my novel it would be painted against the grand and intimidating backdrop of south Orange County.

All writing is a personal journey, a confession, really. All books and novels are glimpse into one's soul. West Coast Hearts, therefore, promises not to change anything but perhaps change everything. It'll be as succinct as I can make it. I've already lived part of it and the other parts I've observed. The great books of California are still being written--either from selective memory or observation. I ask you: What are you waiting for?

Matchbox 20

Now they're saying some kid set at least one of the blazes that destroyed property but thankfully didn't take any lives. I guess the question is, Where the hell were the parents?

Kids play with matches all the time; I very nearly blew up a shed when I was eight but we had the wisdom enough to douse the small fire before it got out of control. It was part of a regimen, I guess. We used to light our plastic soldiers on fire to morph their appearance, therefore create bad guys that our other toys could battle. Our little experiments with fire never lasted. It was over before it became it could become interesting (in a child's eye).

But, I mean, the areas that burned are relatively remote; any yokel driving by in a pickup (or a sedan for that matter) who tosses their butt out the window could've started the wildfires. Pundits are now perhaps misquoting firefighters who've chorused, "Ain't seen nothing like it." They were referring to the size of the blazes, the coverage. And it's true: the acreage that burned in SoCal is akin to burning all of NYC.

Well, be that as it may, I suppose what's disheartening is that all the elements were there for a natural disaster: low humidity, high temperatures, housing developments, drought, Santa Ana winds. It could only go one way, and it did.

The fires are now all but extinguished. The smoke has cleared, and it was strange to note that having seen an actual blue sky for the first time in more than a week was rather shocking. It was so amazingly blue that I was reminded that this was California. Life continues for the West Coast Hearts...

Mountains in October

And then it was October. It begins to cool down. Wind shifts off the ocean and drapes the southland mornings in fog that burns off before noon. The lovely smell of the rotting leaves; the coldstone feel of the canyon mornings.

I've hiked Mt. Wilson on mornings like these. You get up past first water and the trail clears out. You curl around the bend and forge upward and soon you're in the silence of the California wilderness--if this part of California can still be considered wild. You stop on the trail and listen. Not even a jet overhead. Far below, the valley floor but you're deep in the canyon at that point and above the smog levels, and so can't see it.

Up here is where I would go to clear my thoughts, where I could hear nothing but my own mind reading along whatever ideas I had. When I was writing Dryline Rhapsody, I would take to the trail to dislodge all the clatter that existed below. The air is cool and clean; the smells decidedly non-Foothill Blvd.

The first time I took to the trail was actually on a rainy spring afternoon. Someone (a co-worker) had mentioned the place and vaguely told me how to get there. It raining like all get-out and the shoes I had one were casual weekender things, not trail boots, but I started up the trail nevertheless. I didn't get too far before I realized that the trail was more a stream and that I ought to make my way back when the weather clears and I have better shoes. The following weekend I did just that, and so began my trail-watch.

It's quite literary to hike. Many of us sad city folks and suburbanites might forget what it's like to see the woods in the autumn or to follow a springtime brook. I had. (I'm originally from New Hampshire where it was occasionally more than wild) But having found this outlet, I could now converse and organize whatever thoughts I had, and at the time it was more or less geared toward Dryline Rhapsody, my novel project about post-postmodern California.

Then there's West Coast Hearts. It has a life of its own and I admit I haven't really extended myself to it that much; been marketing the other two manuscripts, one of which, North of Here, has been submitted to a competition recently.

All mountains take time; all writing takes time. But I'm glad I've given over the time to it, and someday you'll thank me. Someday you'll thank the mountain, too.