Ghosts, Goblins, and 5.6 Magnitude Earthquakes

When I first moved to California, thoughts of earthquakes always lurked in the recesses of my mind. Seismic activity didn’t consume my thoughts (selling a screenplay had that job), but there were certainly an awareness of what could happen. And in 1999, after a night out barhopping on Sunset Boulevard, I finally felt my first significant earthquake.

The epicenter was Joshua Tree, some 100 miles from my apartment in Hollywood. But the magnitude was 7.0 and I lived in a shoddily constructed building on the 3rd Floor. I thought it was The Big One.

It was 2:46 a.m. and I was getting ready to eat my burger from Jack In The Box when the room starting rolling. I’d had several beers that night but I knew the sensation wasn’t from alcohol. It felt as if I were on a boat, or straddling the top of Jenga sticks. Although measured in seconds, to me it felt as if it would never end. I honestly thought the whole apartment complex was going to topple over.

I rushed outside expecting to see destruction and hundreds of people in fear. But June Street in Hollywood was mostly empty, except for a couple of guys smoking a joint. One of them said, “Dude, that was pretty freaky, huh?” From the upper floor of a 1960’s apartment complex it felt if the world was ending. But from the street it was just an amusing 10 or fifteen seconds.

In the history of Earthquakes, the1999 Joshua Tree one is not very memorable. It was centered in the desert and did not cause any major injuries or destruction. With a 7.0 location is everything. You transplant that magnitude close to a major urban area and you have a natural disaster on your hands. But that wasn’t the case, and for most it was just “dude, that was freaky”.

Last night I had my second encounter with a moderate earthquake.

A 5.6 one struck just outside of San Jose, which is about 50 miles away from San Francisco. This time there was no rolling (I live in the basement), but I did feel a jolt and the house rattled. I knew it was bigger than a 3 to 4 magnitude quake- of which I’d felt several times through the years, but I was pretty sure that if it were The Big One it couldn’t be that close to The Bay Area.

So instead of rushing outside I turned on the TV. About ten minutes later KRON 4 (the local independent station) got their coverage going. I watched for about an hour or so, and there were no reports of injuries or significant damage. But from the calls coming in close to the epicenter, it certainly jangled thousands of people’s nerves. One second you’re getting ready to watch the Charlie Brown Halloween special and the next you’re wondering if your $2000 Plasma TV might fall off your wall.

From my location in San Francisco, the jolt and shake just got my mind racing. And then watching the news I learned a very interesting fact: This 5.6 Earthquake was the biggest one in the Bay Area since 1989 . . . the one that killed 62 people, injured 3,756 and left more than 12,000 people homeless.

But on this October night in 2007 it was just a pre-Halloween scare, a grim reminder of what will eventually happen. A major earthquake will strike both San Francisco & Los Angeles at some point in the future. One day from now, 5 years, a decade or two . . . it’s a scientific inevitability.

So this weekend I will put together something resembling an Earthquake Kit (I did the same thing in 1999 and haven’t done it since). I’ll do some reading on the web and my ears will perk up whenever I hear people talking about seismic activity. But then things will go back to normal. Being prepared is smart, but only fools live in fear.

More October Magic

In my high school yearbook every senior had to answer the question: what is your goal in life. It’s a standard query, one that could elicit a wide range of responses. Mine was “to see The Red Sox win a World Series”.

Maybe I should have aimed higher.

Ahh . . . but we have to put this into context. This was 1988, less than two years after the Buckner debacle cemented the idea of a curse in everybody’s head. I was also only 17, highly sarcastic, and a passionate Red Sox fan.

It was offered part in jest, but there was obviously a lot of truth in it. Truth that was magnified every time the Sox got into the playoffs and lost: ’88, ’90, ’95, ’98, ’99, and 2003. Every one of those Octobers my hopes were immensely high . . . and were eventually crushed.

But as we all know 2004 changed all that. The Bloody Sock, Big Papi’s miracle walk-offs, and that underhand toss to first base. Those events are all well documented, and those memories will last forever.

And now we have 2007.

For me this season will still be special, and I’ll always remember exactly where I was when Jonathan Papelbon stuck out Seth Smith to win it all. For the record I was at The Buccaneer, a Red Sox bastion in San Francisco. Sitting at a coveted seat at the bar with Jen, Jamie, and Ryan, the roar from the crowd around us reverberated through my ears. Suddenly champagne bottles popped and we got sprayed by the celebratory beverage (I can see why the players wear the goggles . . . it stings the eyes). “Dirty Water” blasted from the speakers, high fives were flying everywhere, and the grin on my face was a serene as The Buddha.

I don’t care that it was a sweep. I don’t care that it was against a 15 year-old team with a much smaller payroll. I don’t care that we didn’t have to life the weight of curses and history this time. Winning The World Series is a damn hard thing to do and anything can happen on that stage. Ask The Yankees about getting beat by The Marlins & Diamondbacks.

So congratulations to your 2007 Boston Red Sox. From the rookies to international players to the veterans, you all gave us diehard fans another year to cherish. And now I really need to find another goal in life.

"The Chief just voted- It was 10-9 . . . Now I want that TV Set on RIGHT NOW"- McMurphy

I was 16 years-old when The Red Sox played The Mets in The World Series, and by the time they got back to The Fall Classic I was 34. Between the heart amputation of 1986 to the curse reverse of 2004 were eighteen long years. Millions of babies grew into adults. Computers turned from esoteric items used by few to vital tools utilized throughout the world. There were five presidential races. And somewhere along the way Michael Jackson, Pee Wee Herman, and Mel Gibson went from fascinating entertainers to people you wouldn’t let near your children.

A three year wait isn’t quite as dramatic, but it’s still immensely exciting to see The Red Sox play in The World Series.

So here we go . . . Game One begins tonight at Fenway Park. The White Hot Rockies, winners of 21 out of 22 games, will try to extend their improbable run under the glare of The Green Monster. They’ll face The Boston Red Sox, who on the brink of elimination captured The American League Pennant by outscoring The Indians 30-5 in the final 3 games. It’s Troy Tulowitzki & Todd Helton contrasting with Dustin Pedroia & Big Papi. It’s Kaz Matsui facing off against Daisuke Matsuzaka. It’s expansion franchise vs. the one with more than a century of history.

While The Red Sox are certainly going to be the favorites, The Rockies will challenge them much in the way Cleveland did. The men in purple play outstanding defense, they have 3 good starting pitchers, a solid bullpen, and have several players who can hit homeruns. And if you’ve turned on ESPN over the last few days, I’m sure you know by now that Colorado took 2 out 3 from Boston in June and hit Beckett & Schilling hard.

But this isn’t the summer. And while The Rockies have been riding an incredible streak of wins, they were doing it against National League teams that were not very good. And then there’s the fact they haven’t played a game in eight days. While such a rest might be helpful for a veteran team, for a predominately young one it’s bound to disrupt their rhythm. The Rockies have also had more than a week to allow the pressure of playing for baseball’s ultimate goal to seep into their brains.

As for The Red Sox, they have a good mixture of youth and experience and they bring power, pitching, and defense to every game. They have the best starter in Josh Beckett, the best closer in Jonathan Papelbon, and Post Season Legend David Ortiz. These guys know how to handle any amount of pressure. And thanks to that All Star Game in San Francisco, Fenway Park will provide the home field advantage.

I don’t believe in crystal balls, but as I said in my last blog I always expect my teams to win. That doesn’t come from arrogance, it comes from wistful optimism. So I don’t know if it will be a sweep, a 7 game nerve scorcher, or somewhere in between, but I expect The Red Sox to be the last team standing in this 2007 Season. So cue up “Tessie”, “Sweet Caroline”, and “Dirty Water”. This is The World Series and you have to enjoy every minute of it, because you never know if the next one will be eighteen years in the future.

Fenway Daydreaming

As I wrote in a previous post, I knew beating The Indians would be tough. Did I think we would be on the edge of our barstools last night, just hoping The Red Sox would be able to force a Game 6 at Fenway? Of course not. But this is true Boston playoff baseball, which means it is never easy on the nerves. Although when The Sox win, it’s a helluva lot of fun.

So now we give the ball and the 2007 season to Curt Schilling, who I expect will conjure up the magic of the bloody sock. His last outing was forgettable, but so was his first ALCS start against NY in ’04. History doesn’t always repeat itself, but statistics have the ability to provide a glimpse into the future. Schilling is 9-2 with 2.23 ERA in the playoffs. He thrives in pressure situations, and I expect him to get win number 10 on Saturday night.

As stated before, I have to think that way. Some people expect the worst so they lessen any possible disappointment. When it comes to my teams, my mind doesn’t operate in a pessimistic mode. I always believe The Red Sox, Patriots, Celtics, & Bruins will find a way to win. And I’m elated when it happens, and devastated when it doesn’t.

So believe and keep the faith . . . and expect The Red Sox to accomplish great things over the weekend at Fenway Park.

Old Emails & Cheap Wine

Although I own several bottles of wine from some great vineyards of Northern California, last night I stopped at a liquor store and some bought a jug of cheap port. I suppose I wanted to save the good stuff, but for what I’m not sure. Or maybe I wanted to channel the ghost of Jack Kerouac, who loved to get high on Christian Brothers port and write (although he did die of cirrhosis of the liver, so maybe I shouldn't be doing that).

But even a couple glasses of the sweet purple stuff couldn’t stir up the creative juices. I wanted to resurrect my “new” novel (the one I began in 2004), but I only wrote a few lines and then quickly deleted them.

From there I decided on a nostalgia trip back to 2004, and once again began digging through my old emails. There is something nice about reading your old letters while listening to good music and drinking cheap wine. You might learn something about yourself, or it might just be entertainment. Both happened with these two emails that I’m posting. They were to my friend Jen (who now writes a great blog- Pink & Blue on my link list), and the subject is writing and the quest to have a career with words.


From: Mike
To: Jen
Subject: Re: Swag Bellied Pirates
Date: Sunday, May 16, 2004 1:23 AM


"The truth is that I am still poor as a church-house rat and I have been severely beaten many times, just for telling the truth. My life has been a series of tragic misunderstandings."
-Hunter S. Thompson

If I had one quote to describe my six years in Los Angeles, I think that would be it. Poor, beaten, and misunderstood.

No, it hasn’t been That Bad. Hyperbole is a sport, and when you're feeling low it's nice to exaggerate your life in a heinous way. Especially when you've been drinking. Actually, I'm doing pretty well. I'm living with a terrific girl, and when we're together life is good. Have I sold a script? No. Have I sold my novel? No. And that's the core of the self-loathing: my failure as a writer. So I've begun to look for a Real Job. And reading those Help Wanted Ads makes me even more depressed.

But enough about that. You're pregnant, and I'm sure you don't want to hear one of your old friends whine. And I don't have much energy for that kind of gig. Shit . . . you're pregnant, Jen! I'm 33 now, and most of my friends are married and have children. So I should be used to it by now, but I'm not. I still think of the girl playing darts, drinking a pint after a night at Uno's, and wearing that damned backpack. And you still are that person, but now you're having a child. And that's wonderful! I am truly happy for you and your husband.

As for things with my girlfriend, we're still trying to figure stuff out. (Never end a sentence in a preposition, but screw that...I'm rolling.) We want to move to another city, but we can't decide on San Francisco, Seattle, Chicago, or Boston. Those are the "mutually accepted" locations, but on some days I would give anything for a job in Key West, Honolulu, or Tahiti. Maturity has never been a strong suit.

Anyway, let me know how the move went and how the baby stuff is doing and how you're adjusting being back in America.

-Mike


From: Mike
To: Jen
Subject: Re: self loathing
Date: Friday, June 04, 2004 3:27 AM


"Every word I put down now must be an arrow that goes straight to the mark. A poisoned arrow. I want to kill off books, writers, publishers, readers. To write for the public doesn't mean a thing to me. What I'd like to do is write for madmen . . . or for the angels."
-Henry Miller

Jen,

I think my problem (and it may be yours also) is that I've been so concerned with my career. Writing for the public (be they readers, editors, or critics) is wrong. It might bring about a sale (like the many stupid books and movies out there), but it will be ephemeral and empty. Writers write because they have to . . . the story or poem or essay sears their brain and tunnels out to the page.

Ahh, but if you want a career (and who doesn't), you have to have some grasp on the marketplace. And if you want to be able to spend your time writing (and not waiting on tables or shuffling papers or digging a ditch or shaking your butt from a stripper pole), you need that success. A Catch-22 shit sandwich (with extra rancid mayo), and it inevitably leads to self-loathing and complaining to your friends. So you have to make a decision, and I've decided that I'm done with screenplays. Whatever I end up doing now for my income, I'm going to keep on writing stories and novels. But I refuse to waste any more time laboring over scripts. I have so much I want to say, and I don't want my voice to be shackled by acts and plot points and trying to appease the 15-24 demographic.

Which brings us to you, Jen. You are a writer, and a damn good one, even if you haven't produced anything recently. Maybe most writing stems from longing . . . but why can't it be a longing to express feelings of happiness or even to simply interpret interesting experiences? Living in Italy, getting married, having a child- these are moments in your life that you will (at some point) want to communicate. Maybe it will be next month, or maybe it might be next year, but you will one day wake-up and jump at your computer or notebook with your hair on fire, just longing to express yourself. And you won't do it for a smarmy lit magazine or for a possible book deal . . . you'll do it because you have no choice.

Jesus, talk about preachy.

For the last year I've thought so much about writing and my career, and even getting married and having kids. Heavy stuff . . . the topics that usually send me to the nearest bottle of rum. But I still haven't found any answers, and I don't suspect I will anytime soon. So I plod onwards, with a desire not to take myself so damned seriously so damned often. The harsh realities of life will always be there, but as long as I pay attention and keep writing stuff down I will be happy more days than not. And hopefully you will be too.

Mike

Of Laundromats & Shopping Carts

I was going to write a blog about how there is something inherently sad about Laundromats, about seeing little girl’s pink sock stuck to the top of the dryer you’re about to use. Such thoughts were swirling around my mind the other night as I was washing my clothes in public for the first time in nearly 5 years. I guess I was extrapolating my situation (of recently losing a terrific woman and a washer/dryer facility). But all around me seemed divorced, widowed, or perpetually single.

And that might have been the case . . . but doubtful. In congested metropolitan areas there is bound to be a percentage of the population who cannot do their laundry within their building. It’s actually very normal.

Except when you’re used to cleaning your socks and underwear in the privacy of your own home, a Laundromat can be a bizarre place. There’s the bright florescent lights, the industrial sound of machines running, and a group of people staring zombie-like at the tumbling dryers.

But there is something a bit odder. Picture if you will a college educated man in his 30’s pushing a shopping cart full of dirty clothes up the street. And then imagine this unfortunate person navigating this rickety carriage past multi-million dollar homes.

This really happened.

Buzzed from drinking beers and watching The Patriots beat The Cowboys, I came back to my apartment and suddenly realized I had no clean clothes to wear to work. Something had to be done. But I’d yet to do laundry since I moved to my new apartment, and I wasn’t quite sure where to go. Sans car, I knew I was in for a challenge.

I remembered passing a Laundromat somewhere nearby, so I gathered up all my dirty clothes and went outside for the journey. But something was very wrong. The laundry basket was exceeding heavy, and in the cool of the night I got to the end of the street and realized this was a huge mistake. I desperately needed clean clothes, but there was just no way to make the walk to the Laundromat (which, unbeknownst by me at the time, was about a mile away).

And that’s when I saw the shopping cart.

In urban areas shopping carts are not exotic items. Homeless people use them to transport their belongings, the elderly bypass the supermarket boundaries and push their groceries home with them, and punk kids boost them for joyrides. But as stated, I live in a very upscale neighborhood (for fluky reasons- there is nothing upscale about me). There are no bums, old people can afford to pay for cabs to deliver their groceries, and the kids are too busy with their soccer, lacrosse, or karate practices to steal shopping carts.

But there it was. Right at the end of the street, almost as if the laundry gods placed it there for me. And since I was buzzed from the football beverages and my basket was so heavy, I took it. I placed all my dirty clothes inside and made a terrible racket pushing the cart to the Laundromat. Clang, clang, clang I went and disturbed the peacefulness of the posh neighborhood.

Going there I was more embarrassed than anything. I felt guilty for taking somebody’s cart (even though it had a supermarket logo printed on it), and very low class for pushing it. But once at my destination I hid it off to the side because I knew I would need it return.

And I did use it again once I was finished washing and drying. But now I saw this whole situation as hilarious. I couldn’t help but smirk when a few people walking their dogs crossed to the other side of the street as I crashed on by. In the dark they must have thought I was an errant bum. So I laughed, and probably frightened them even more. When I got back to my block I left it exactly where I had found it.

And then it put everything in perspective. If you think hard enough, just about anything can be inherently sad. But if you are just trying to accomplish routine tasks, there is nothing dolorous about them. In fact, if you keep your sense of humor you might even have a good time.

Bring On The Indians

Although it’s strange to see The Red Sox play somebody other than The Yankees in the ALCS, it’s no less exciting. So we have Grady Sizemore, C.C. Sabathia, and Joe Borowski to root against instead of Johnny Damon, Andy Pettitte, and Mariano Rivera. The Cleveland names don’t exactly have the juice of their New York counterparts, but their team did win 96 games- same as The Sox.

And no matter who you play, you have to win four games to get to The World Series.

This is what us fans dream of every year. This is why we go to the park to see the games, watch them TV, or listen to the calls on the radio. This is why we pour over stats and box scores and read all the coverage in The Globe & Herald. Sure, if the Red Sox were in last place I’d still do the same thing (and have in years past). But winning makes it so much sweeter, so much more rewarding.

The season is exceedingly long and it’s incredibly difficult to play consistently well from April through October. So many things can go wrong, just getting to the League Championship Series is a huge accomplishment. But there isn’t a Sox fan or player who will say he or she is just happy for them to be there. We want to get into The World Series (which has happened only 3 times during my life) and win it all (only occurring once in 89 years).

But I’m looking too far ahead. The Indians are a very good team and will certainly provide The Red Sox with a tough challenge. Their top two starters- Sabathia and Fausto Carmona- have combined for 38 wins, they have a solid bullpen, and their line-up (7 players with double digit homers) produces a lot of runs. They are also well coached, scrappy, and play good defense.

But the Red Sox will have the advantage in two key areas- depth of starters and closers. Dice-K and Wakefield (or Jon Lester) are much stronger than their 3 & 4 pitchers. And while the Indians have great set-up men, their closer Borowski has had a lot of problems (8 blown saves and an ERA of 5.07). The Sox have Jonathan Papelbon, who is one of the league’s elite. These games should all be tight, and they have the potential to be decided by whoever can get the final 3 outs. With Papelbon you feel very safe giving him the ball in the 9th inning. I don’t think Cleveland fans feel the same way about Borowski.

So here we go. I will be rushing out of work early (4:10 west coast start) so I can make it up to The Buccaneer (my Boston bar in San Francisco) for Beckett’s first pitch. The Red Sox have won 99 games thus far this year. Hopefully we get number 100 tonight, and can squeeze out seven more after that.

Long Live Mediocrity

Just returned from walking around my new neighborhood (San Francisco's Outer Richmond) and I had planned on writing a blog about this area. But then I realized I don’t know enough about it yet. I could probably squeeze a few paragraphs on the good burger I had at Bill’s (a 1950’s joint) and the nice glass of Guinness I drank at The Blarney Stone (authentic Irish Pub), but beyond that I haven’t been to many of the places. But once I have the time I plan on doing a lot of exploring. There is much to see and do around here.

So instead I decided to read some old emails and find a good one to post. This was sent to my friend Paul back in the summer of ’04, most likely fueled by some red wine.


June 9, 2004

"Look around and you will see, this world is full of creeps like me. You look surprised, but you shouldn't be . . . this world is full of creeps like me." -Lyle Lovett

Paul,

Was just flipping channels and caught the end of Jay Leno. Three women were singing, and they looked like hideous caricatures of some Branson, Missouri show gone wild. They were gyrating out of sync, croaking a bland pop tune, and blasting Joker-like smiles from pancake make-up. But wait, they also looked familiar. Too young for an 80's band, too old for anything that might be on the charts . . . holy shit, it's Wilson-Phillips. Granted, I never liked their one or two songs that were hits, and they were pretty forgettable when they were released . . . but what had HAPPENED to them in the last 12 years (that was their last appearance on Leno). They are our age and looked just terrible. Not simply old, but haggard and ridiculous and wrong.

I'm not sure why it's bothering me so much. I was laughing when I saw them singing, but when they sat on the couch and stared talking about their new album and how 1992 was the last time they were on Leno . . . I began thinking about how 12 years ago we were still at B.U., and back then I felt like I could write and sell anything I wanted and that everything was possible. And here it is 2004 and a crappy pop group of my generation is doing a fucking REUNION TOUR and I've yet to achieve anything I've set out to do.

Ahh, but that's the way it goes. I've complained for so long now that I don't even listen to myself. I say bring on all the 90's reunion tours- Vanilla Ice, The Spice Girls, and that goddamned group that sang "Macarena". Mediocrity sells, long live mediocrity.

Okay, that's it for now. Hope the house hunting is going well. Talk to you soon.

-Oz

Pretty Girls Ride The Bus In San Francisco

In The Bay Area, if you want to get into San Francisco you have many travel options. There’s the freeways and bridges for driving, the BART (subway), the bus, the ferry, and Caltrain (commuter rail). Living on The Peninsula, I took the latter.

As much as I complained about my commuter train journey into the city everyday, the actual experience wasn’t that bad. I always got a seat to myself, the scenery was pleasant (hills, water, fog, and sunrises), I could drink coffee and eat my breakfast (Cliff Bar and string cheese), and it was a smooth 35 minute ride up the Bay. I think it was the whole “familiarity breeds contempt” thing that got to me, the repetition and seeing the same people everyday and that damn walk up 4th Street with all the herd of commuters.

But now that I live in the city and do not own a car, from my neighborhood I only have one option of getting to and from work- the bus.

I have always hated riding the bus.

For all the years I lived in Boston, I rarely rode the bus within the city. If I couldn’t get there by The T (subway) or on foot, I took a cab or else didn’t go to that destination. Busses were smelly- both of exhaust and the rift-raft of society, I hated waiting around for them to show, and the constant stopping and starting within traffic drove me crazy. In fact, when I was at BU and I had to go to Cambridge, I still took The T. Even though the quickest way there was the bus that simply crossed the river. But instead I would ride the Green Line all the way down Commonwealth Ave and underground to Park Street and then onto the Red Line and back up The Charles River. Adding 30 minutes was a good tradeoff from staying away from a bus.

When I lived in Los Angeles, there was about a six month period when I found myself without a car. Luckily for me there was the new underground Red Line that zipped me from Hollywood to downtown (where I worked) in about fifteen minutes. But there were many places the Los Angeles subway did not go, and occasionally I would take the bus.

There is nothing sadder than a screenwriter hopeful waiting on Sunset Boulevard for a bus that isn’t showing while Mercedes, Porches and Limos whiz on past him on their way to (what I always envisioned) million dollar deals. And while you were waiting for that stinking bus, inevitably a gorgeous girl in a convertible would stop at a red light next to you. Every second you lingered in the perfectly sunny afternoon, you could not help but to try to figure out what had went wrong with your life.

And the actual LA bus ride was a dreadful experience. Ten times smellier than Boston, with 50% more homeless people, and triple the stops and starts and traffic. There came a point when I could no longer stand it. I remember the exact moment when I said "no more" to LA busses. It was the day a lovely gentleman whipped out his Johnson and urinated while we headed down Wilshire Boulevard. I, along with most of the passengers, got off on the next stop.

But in San Francisco, I’ve had to hop back on.

I still hate waiting for the bus on the street corner. And I loathe being packed inside the crowded vehicle, trying desperately to hold onto the rail as we careen around the city. But luckily some things have changed.

In SF there are electric and low emission busses that eliminate most of the exhaust smell. And while I cannot say there are no dregs of society riding next to me, the percentage is much lower than LA. I’m also discovering which lines to take (#2 Clement- mostly students, elderly, and business people) and which to avoid (#38 Geary- too many winos). There also isn’t a stigma attached to taking the bus in San Francisco.

In LA, you were probably only taking the bus if you were poor or had lost your license from a DUI. And I never once saw a pretty girl get on board. In fact there were plenty of times when I was certain I was the only person there who was not wanted by the police. But here a wide selection of the masses rides the bus. And every morning at least a few beautiful women sit along side of me as we travel up and down the hills of San Francisco.

Dissecting The Blog

The whole idea of a blog is to provide a running commentary on your life or a certain subject. You’re trying to give whoever wants to read it brief bursts of personal information and opinions. But it seems as if I’ve had trouble with the “running” and “personal” and “brief” parts of that equation.

Posting everyday is just not option. If blogging were my job, then I would be able to happily finish several entries per day. But instead I must wake early in the morning, commute, work at a computer all day in uncreative endeavors, and then rush off for my return commute. Finding quiet time to write has always been a challenge.

The personal side is also tough. I have no problems revealing intimate details of my past (as with publishing excerpts from my old journals), but I tend to guard the here and now very closely. Recently I’ve gone through a break-up and have moved out on my own, but I have no interest in elaborating on either. Maybe that’s because I’m always looking for perspective. Current personal events are very volatile, and although you might feel a certain way today . . . tomorrow’s thoughts and emotions can be the polar opposite.

As for being brief, I guess that goes back to the fact that I don’t blog everyday. When I actually sit down and start to write and get the words flowing, it is pure enjoyment. I sort of zone-out and the hours pass quickly . . . especially with a few glasses of wine or beer. Even when I’m posting my old journals, I have to do a lot of editing to make them shorter.

But now that I’m going to have a lot more alone time, I plan on writing more often. I’ll probably still be guarded with the private details, but I want to start offering up more opinions and descriptions of what is happening around me. I will attempt to be more like a newspaper columnist (in the tradition of Mike Barnicle or Carl Hiassen). And I’m definitely going to limit the number of words in each blog entry (under 400 with this one), because the bulk of my writing time is going to be spent working on my new novel.