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probably written more words this year than in any year of my
life. And though a writer is a poor judge of his own work, I still
tend to believe that the writing is about as good as ever I mean,
as good as I have done in my peak times. This computer that I
started using on Jan. 18 has had much to do with it. It s simply
easier to get the word down, it transfers more quickly from the
brain (or wherever this comes from) to the fingers and from the
fingers to the screen where it is immediately visible crisp and
clear. It s not a matter of speed per se, it s a matter of flow, a river
of words and if the words are good then let them run with ease.
No more carbons, no more retyping. I used to need one night to
do the work and then the next night to correct the errors and
sloppiness of the night before. Misspellings, screw-ups in tenses,
etc. can now all be corrected on the original copy without a
complete retype or write-ins or cross-outs. Nobody likes to read
haphazard copy, not even the writer. I know all this must sound
prissy and over-careful but it isn t, all it does is allow whatever
force or luck you might have engendered to come out clearly. It s
all for the best, really, and if this is how you lose your soul, I am
all for it.
There have been some bad moments. I remember one night
after typing a good 4 hours or so, I felt I had had some astonishing
luck when I hit something or other there was a flash of blue
light and the many pages of writing vanished. I tried everything
to get them back. They
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were simply gone. Yes, I had it set on Save-all, it still didn t
matter. This had happened at other times but not with so many
pages. Let me tell you, it is one hell of a hell of a horrible feeling
when the pages vanish. Come to think of it now, I have lost 3 or
4 pages at other times on my novel. A whole chapter. What I did
then was simply rewrite the whole damn thing. When you do
this, you lose something, little highlights that don t return but
you gain something too because as you rewrite you skip some
parts that didn t quite please you and you add some parts that
are better. So? Well, it s a long night then. The birds are up. The
wife and the cats think you ve gone mad.
I consulted some computer experts about the blue flash but
none of them could tell me anything. I ve found out that most
computer experts aren t very expert. Confounding things happen
that just aren t in the book. Now that I know more about com-
puters I think I know one thing that might have brought the work
back from the blue flash &
The worst night was when I sat down to the computer and it
went completely crazy, sending out bombs, weird loud sounds,
moments of darkness, deathly blackness, I worked and worked
but could do nothing. Then I noticed what looked like liquid that
had hardened on the screen and around the slot near the brain,
the slot where you inserted the disks. One of my cats had sprayed
the machine. I had to take it down to the computer shop. The
mechanic was out and a salesman removed a portion of the
brain, a yellow liquid splashed on his white shirt and he
screamed cat spray! Poor guy. Poor guy. Anyhow, I left the
computer. Nothing in the warranty
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covered cat spray. They had to take practically all the guts out of
the brain. It took them 8 days to fix it. During that time I went
back to my typewriter. It was like trying to break rock with my
hands. I had to learn to type all over again. I had to get good and
drunk to get the flow. And again, it was one night to write it and
another night to straighten it out. But I was glad the typer was
there. We had been together over 5 decades and had some great
times. When I got the computer back it was with some sadness
that I returned the old typer to its place in the corner. But I went
back to the computer and the words flew like crazy birds. And
there were no longer any blue flashes and pages that vanished.
Things were even better. That cat spraying the machine fixed
everything up. Only now, when I leave the computer I cover it
with a large beach towel and close the door.
Yes, it s been my most productive year. Wine gets better if it s
properly aged.
I m not in a contest with anybody, have no thoughts about
immortality, don t give a damn about it. It s the ACTION while
you re alive. The gate springing open in the sunlight, the horses
plunging through the light, all the jocks, brave little devils in their
bright silks, going for it, doing it. The glory is in the motion and
the dare. Death be damned. It s today and today and today. Yes.
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12/9/91 1:18 AM
The tide ebbs. I sit and stare at a paper clip for 5 minutes. Yes-
terday, coming in on the freeway, it was evening going into
darkness. There was a light fog. Christmas was coming like a
harpoon. Suddenly I noticed that I was driving almost alone.
Then in the road I saw a large bumper attached to a piece of grill.
I avoided it in time, then looked to my right. There was a pile-up
of cars, 4 or 5 cars but there was silence, no movement, nobody
around, no fire, no smoke, no headlights. I was going too fast to
see if there were people in the cars. Then, at once, evening became
night. Sometimes there is no warning. Things occur in seconds.
Everything changes. You re alive. You re dead. And things move
on.
We are paper thin. We exist on luck amid the percentages,
temporarily. And that s the best part and the worst part, the
temporal factor. And there s nothing you can do about it. You
can sit on top of a mountain and meditate for decades and it s
not going to alter. You can alter yourself into acceptability but
maybe that s wrong too. Maybe we think too much. Feel more,
think less.
All the cars in that pile-up seemed to be gray. Odd.
I like the way philosophers break down the concepts and the-
ories which have preceded them. It s been going on for centuries.
No, that s not the way, they say. This is the way. It goes on and
on and seems very sensible, this onwardness. The main problem
for the philosophers is that they must humanize their language,
make it more accessible, then the thoughts light up better, are
more
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interesting still. I think that they are learning this. Simplicity is
the key.
In writing you must slide along. The words can be crippled
and choppy but if they slide along then a certain delight lights
up everything. Careful writing is deathly writing. I think Sher-
wood Anderson was one of the best at playing with words as if
they were rocks, or bits of food to be eaten. He PAINTED his
words on paper. And they were so simple that you felt rushes of
light, doors opening, walls glistening. You could see rugs and
shoes and fingers. He had the words. Delightful. Yet, they were
like bullets too. They could take you right out. Sherwood Ander-
son knew something, he had the instinct. Hemingway tried too
hard. You could feel the hard work in his writing. They were
hard blocks stuck together. And Anderson could laugh while he
was telling you something serious. Hemingway could never
laugh. Anybody who writes standing up at 6 a.m. in the morning
has no sense of humor. He wants to defeat something.
Tired tonight. Damn, I don t get enough sleep. I would love to
sleep until noon but with the first post at 12:30, add the drive and
getting your figures ready, I have to leave here about 11 a.m.,
before the mailman gets here. And I m seldom asleep until 2 a.m.
or so. Get up a couple of times to piss. One of the cats awakens
me at 6 a.m. on the dot, morning after morning, he s got to go
out. Then too, the lonelyhearts like to phone before 10 a.m. I don t
answer, the machine takes the message. I mean, my sleep is
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