Love and more love to my deceased grandfather, Herbie Jordan. Today was his birthday. He was my best friend. As I write this I am drinking a cup of strong coffee with milk in it. As far back as my memory reaches I have been drinking coffee. When I was very young my parents would take me to my grandparent's house before they went to work. I would sit with m grandpa and we would drink coffee. He would pour an inch of coffee into a cup for me and fill the rest up with milk. As I grew he poured me less milk and more coffee. I credit Herbie with many things in my life, especially my love of solitude. We would sit in silence for hours in his backyard while my grandmother gardened and my sisters chased the chickens around. Our love was the most comfortable thing I have ever known. He would always counsel me Don't give a shit what anyone thinks. I miss him dearly but dream of him often. Happy birthday, viejito.
I finished Downtown Owl. Great characters, good inner dialogue, interesting and brilliant scenes but at the end of the book I was dissatisfied. (I think) I understand what Klosterman was doing but, well, shit. I like resolution. I know things aren't supposed to be wrapped up in neat packages and messes are left behind all of the time in real life. But I have enough real life living and wanted something more. I still recommend it.
The writing is coming along though I am hit with freight train moments of not wanting to ever write again. But they pass. What really inspires me is the mediocre writing I see many places. However the mediocre the writers are, however, they send out work a lot more than I do. I think it may be a confidence thing. As soon as I put a stamp on an envelope containing my work and stick it in the mailbox I have a mini-breakdown of fear that my writing is terrible and I am wasting my time. I shut that voice up as quickly as I can but it is always whispering somewhere in the background. Bad voice! Bad!
You're No Good