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?
