Writing Was The One That Got Away
I was working in the film industry when it happened to me. With a jolt, I caught sight of it just as it turned the corner. But there was no doubt. That stab of remembrance. That bolt towards the thing I loved with my whole heart. I had to surrender to a love that could kill me. I could not not do it anymore. If one is a writer who is not writing, that is a living death. I purchased grammar books, "The Borzoi Handbook,” “Chicago Style," and the 3rd edition of “Harbrace.” I studied with three writers for whom I have profound love and respect. Ten years of brutal work later, I began to submit.
Opportunity did arrive, not from those submissions but with a knock at the back door, when an editor friend in England asked me to write an article about an artist we both knew and loved in Los Angeles. It was for a travel magazine, of all things, but it was Bob Guccione Jr's travel magazine which is another thing altogether. For those fortunate enough to have read SPIN Magazine in its heyday, you will understand.
Yes, there is a novel in the works, "Everything Can Kill You," and it may kill me but to die at the hands of my reckless and deeply passionate first love is a far, far better death than all the others I have imagined. I have died a thousand times and I have lived a life filled with untold brutalities and devastations – most of which never happened. One of the joys of being a writer is filling pages with death – of an ex husband, say. Another is that sublime moment when I have written a good sentence.
I wanted to give my returned lover a house. I wanted each room to be specific to the style of writing that would fill it. This site is the house I'm building for my love.