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.
