Wednesday, November 12, 1980
7 PM. Before discussing my individual misery, here are some general observations on the state of the world:
People seem very anxious. Many people I’ve spoken to over the past week are expecting an economic calamity on the order of the Great Depression. From what I’ve been reading, it just might happen. I think inflation could get a lot worse than what it is now if some of Reagan’s policies (tax cuts, increases in defense spending) are enacted.
Also, people are worried about the possibility of war. The Middle East is more volatile than ever, Iran and Iraq are still at war, and it doesn’t look like the hostages are coming back any time soon.
Renewed unemployment and rising inflation might mean race riots next summer, and there’s a whole group of people called Survivalists who are planning for Armageddon by arming themselves, stocking up on canned goods, and preparing for disaster.
Something stronger than gale winds is in the air. Everything seems to be unraveling. Only the photos of Saturn and its magnificent moons and rings seem calming.
I like the TV commercial which says, “If you need it bad, we’ve got it good: Florida” and only hope that turns out to be true for me.
God played another one of his little practical jokes last night. I was thinking of how much money I’ve been trying to save and coming up with the figure that I was about $50 ahead of where I expected to be – when I reached for my glasses, and crunch, they broke in the middle.
I went to Kings Plaza with Mikey, who also has been getting “gotchas” from Our Lord. At Sterling Optical, I picked out a pair of horn rims and we wandered around the mall for an hour while they made up a new pair of glasses for me. Over coffee and yogurt pie at Zum Zum, I reminded Mikey of his old college motto: “It sucks.”
When I got home last night, of course, I discovered that the glasses – which cost $43 – look good but make me terribly dizzy. And right now dizziness is 
Somehow, dizzy or not, I managed to get enough sleep to cope with the new indignities of today: two rowdy classes at John Jay, rejections in the mail, three hours of standing on jammed subways and buses.
Mom called last night and said Grandma Sylvia has agreed to go into an adult residence. Mom called up one and they asked $1,600 a month to keep her. Mom is trying some others that may be cheaper. There’s no telling how much – or how little – they can get for the condo: maybe $50,000 or a little more.
Only Jonny, safely removed from the turmoil and immersed in his studies, seems to be thriving. God bless Jonathan: I hope he doesn’t have to face reality any time soon.
Thursday, November 13, 1980
9 PM. It is satisfying to come home after a full day’s work. I’m tired, but I also have a feeling of accomplishment just getting through this long day. These Thursdays aren’t so bad – and there are only four of them left.
Despite dizziness (compounded now by my new oversized glasses, which are very difficult to get used to), I slept well, savoring every moment because I had to be up at 6:30 AM.
Everyone now knows I’m moving, and I have to start collecting boxes and newspapers to get all my stuff together; I also have to arrange for storing my furniture.
This morning I took the car to Brooklyn College even though it smokes when I stop. I had the veterans’ class write while I did some marking; then I went down to the faculty cafeteria for tea and read the paper until it was 10 AM, when the paychecks are given out.
On the IRT to Manhattan, I began thinking of old friends from college whom I haven’t seen in years: people like Mason and Mara.
I saw Mara’s cousin Buddy today at BC (he works in the business office), and the other night Mikey and I saw Slade at Kings Plaza, but neither of them recognized me. Maybe it’s the beard and my contact lenses.
On the payroll line, I met Bruce Chadwick, who’s got two courses at BC and one at LIU, where they just settled the faculty strike. (Dr. Farber was quoted in Sunday’s Times.)
That sleazy adjunct at John Jay told me to refrain from telling them I’m quitting until the last minute next term so they won’t have time to hire a new person and that will give the other adjuncts a chance for more courses.
What a creep. Immediately afterwards, he warned me not to tell anyone he had given me the suggestion: “I’m afraid of getting in trouble.”
That guy practically asks to be exploited. When I last saw him, he was in a stew about some memo from SEEK; I just ignore those memos. For $24.01 an hour, they can’t expect too much from us.
I arrived early at Brooklyn College and went to talk to Neil Schaeffer at the English Department. Neil told me that the Appointments Committee has sent out a letter of non-reappointment for next term, but added, “You can come back in the future; everyone likes you.”
Apparently Peter Spielberg doesn’t. He walked by while Neil and I were talking and responded to my hello with an unfriendly glare. “Some people,” Neil said.
I had thought maybe Peter didn’t recognize me with my beard, but John Ashbery came out and said hello to both Neil and me. I guess I’m persona 
After eating dinner in Kosher Country, I walked around the quadrangle; tonight was much milder than it has been. My Liberal Studies class went well, as I went over their papers. I really enjoy that class and always seem to go over the hour.
I have about 35 papers to mark this weekend, but that doesn’t seem too much. Maybe this weekend will have a nice surprise for me.
Saturday, November 15, 1980
9 PM. I was just watching a silly old movie called She’s Working Her Way Through College with Virginia Mayo and Ronald Reagan. I’d like to see the campus musical updated to today’s situation. Come to think of, it wouldn’t 
I’m trying to get used to my glasses, and I am, but slowly; the dizziness doesn’t help.
Yesterday Alice called. She had news about a job but couldn’t talk about it because she was at the Seventeen office. She sounded optimistic, though.
Alice told me a story – she almost forgot and then remembered just as she was about to hang up – that meant a great deal to me:
Her friend Mark told her he was working in the Poets-in-the-Schools program in Wisconsin and was teaching a high school creative writing class 
Mark asked them who their favorite writers were, and one, a 17-year-old boy, an aspiring short story writer, said, “Richard Grayson.” He had bought my book and loved it.
Mark, of course, told him that he had published me in Jump River Review. Can you imagine the satisfaction I got, hearing that a boy out there in Wisconsin has been touched by my work to such an extent?
Like Paul Fericano’s comment in the Small Press Review interview, that makes all the shit I’ve gone through to be a writer worth the pain. And it makes me want to go on, if only for some 17-year-old who likes my writing.
Today the MacDowell Colony Newsletter arrived, and I was listed with all the other summer Fellows (most of whom were in residence after I left: Ntozake Shange, Martin Tucker, Ellen Willis Tom Lux. They mention my Coda article, too, so I guess they saw it when it came out.
It was nice to see the names of old Colony friends like David Del Tredici (there was a big piece on him in the Times recently), Ellen Taaffe Zwilich, Anne LeBaron, Preston Twombly, Mark Dean and Sarah Sutro. I’ll always have fond memories of MacDowell because that place showed me what life 
Last night I thought about my life and my career and I came to the conclusion that it was absurd to think of myself as a failure. Do I know anyone else my age who’s had as many stories published as I? Anyone else who’s had a commercial short story collection released?
I keep telling people that the Taplinger book was a fluke, but I know damn well it wouldn’t have happened if I weren’t a talented writer. And I’ve taught at six different colleges now and gotten more publicity than anyone I know.
Compare me to Baumbach and Spielberg: at my age, they were still unpublished while I’ve already published more (and in better places) than Spielberg. (No wonder he ignored me?) And I got where I am without any influential friends to help me.
We went out to eat and walked on the boardwalk and laughed – they more than I because they had gotten high on coke beforehand. I liked having company.
Candy couldn’t believe I’d give up such a nice apartment to move to Florida, but she admitted that “I’m giving myself a year here to make it before I go 
It will be very hard to be in Florida without any friends. I won’t make them there as easily as I did at MacDowell.
Monday, November 17, 1980
6 PM. I got home about an hour ago. It turned cold and cloudy this afternoon and we’re awaiting the first snowfall of the season later tonight. It’s supposed to turn to rain soon after it begins falling, however.
Rikki went away – of course, she didn’t want to take care of him – and Marc said he was alone and bored.
I don’t know what his relationship with Rikki is, other than the fact that it’s sick, but now Marc knows how the rest of us feel about her. He said he may go down to Florida to recover, and of course he can’t take Rikki to Mom and Dad’s house with him.
Also last night, I did my laundry, then watched Saturday Night Fever on TV. I slept amazingly well and woke up feeling so good that I sang the song “Everything’s Coming Up Roses” as I showered. I offered to take Grandpa Herb’s car into Brooklyn to have it fixed, but he insisted on doing it himself.
At the post office, I found two encouraging rejections from Epoch and Eureka Review; a second notice to pay my $40 Authors Guild dues; a letter from Steve Jervis telling me I won’t be reappointed at Brooklyn College this 
I got to John Jay early enough to mimeo some students’ essays, which I went over in my classes. The students seemed chipper and responsive today, and I enjoyed teaching them. I let the second class out early, but because of subway delays, I didn’t get home any earlier than I usually do.
This is the first full week of classes in a while, and I had been thinking of calling in sick one day, but I think I’ll wait until November. Who knows? I might come down with the flu and I might really need my two allowed absences at each school.
I spoke to Simon, who wants to get together so I can help him submit stories to little magazines. Josh seems interested, too. Since Friday I’ve been feeling much better about my career and about my life in general.
I’ve got to take the long view and see these “bad times” in perspective. In truth, there were no major disasters in the past year, just a lot of unfortunate occurrences which taught me a lot.
It’s been eight weeks since I last saw Dr. Pasquale, but I don’t feel the need for another therapy session. I’ve made my decision to move to Florida and I don’t really want to discuss it.
Or is that hiding?
Wednesday, November 19, 1980
10 PM. It’s been a long day. Last evening I taught a class on capitalization at BC, and it went well. It was cold and dark waiting for the bus at the Junction and somehow I was reminded of a little booklet Shelli made for Ivan ten years ago: “Things to Do While Waiting for the Rockaway Bus.”
In the two months I have left before I move, I’d like to see a number of my old friends. I probably won’t get the chance, though.
When I got home last night, I found a note Mrs. Epstein left; it said to call a Bonnie St. John at a Long Island number. It was a collection agency calling about the $103.18 bill I owe on my Getty credit card. I suppose I’ll pay it, but I think it may be illegal harassment for them to call my neighbors.
I hadn’t been dizzy all day yesterday, but I didn’t have a very good night; still, I managed to get a little sleep. This morning I opened an account at the Jamaica Savings Bank on Beach 116th Street; Citibank’s service charges are getting to be too much.
At John Jay, I had lunch with Livia, who’s really sweet. She’s been avoiding writing the prospectus for her dissertation; instead, she reads Dorothy L. Sayers mysteries.
In January, Doris is having an operation to remove a tumor of the parotid gland, like Dad had – but Doris’s lump is much smaller than Dad’s was.
My classes didn’t go too well today – I was pretty disorganized and they were rowdy – but I got through them. I think most of my students will pass the CUNY exam, if not on the first try (in three weeks), then on the second during final exams.
But at 5:30 PM I got a call from Bob Schippa at KCC’s Adult Education division. A writing workshop teacher at Edward R. Murrow High School had just canceled and he wanted to know if I could fill in. I said I would, and he gave me all the information.
Borrowing Grandpa Herb’s car, I drove off into Brooklyn, stopping for an ice cream cone to keep me going. It felt exciting, as if I were a doctor on an emergency call.
I filled out personnel forms and a W-4 and started the class at 7:15 PM. There were about a dozen students: older people, including one married couple, a few young women in various stages of weirdness, and one middle-aged black woman.
They were of course impressed with my book, which I’d brought along, but they wanted to stick with their syllabus. I guess I’d forgotten they were on a beginning level.
Over the years I’ve picked up so much that I’ve never been able to use because I never have taught creative writing. I feel I could be a great creative writing teacher if I had the chance.
At the end of class, I spoke about markets and manuscripts and they really got interested. Mr. Schippa said he’d mail me a check, probably about $30, by Christmas.
Friday, November 21, 1980
11 PM. Like millions of other people, I just found out who shot J.R. on Dallas: It was his sister-in-law Kristin. So ends the biggest publicity stunt in 
I’m dizzy, as usual, but I’m getting used to the feeling at night. Last night it was 2 AM before I got to sleep, but at least I did sleep well.
I dreamed about being in Park Slope with Avis and Libby, and of a map of Brooklyn showing neighborhoods I was unfamiliar with, and of very high bridges and elevated roadways. There’s a New York that exists only in my dreams.
This morning I went to the post office and got letters from Notre Dame, LSU and New Mexico State: all of them want my dossier. I doubt if anything will come of it, but this evening I typed up a new one.
I drove into Brooklyn – yes, my car managed to make it – and picked up my check at Kingsborough. At first the woman from payroll couldn’t find it, and I envisaged having to feign another epileptic attack.
But the check was there: $248 net pay, which I cashed at the Junction and then deposited at Citibank to cover my rent. I should notify my landlord soon about my moving.
If nothing crazy happens in the next few days, this could be the week when I straighten out all my debts. I have $600 in savings now and I’m due to get another $600 this week.
I spent the afternoon reading, watching soap operas and lifting weights before going over to my grandparents’ for dinner. They are so thrifty, it almost makes me sick.
My grandparents have this Depression mentality and they expect me to live as frugally as they do – but I’m young and they don’t really live.
It’s actually been a long time since I’ve bought new clothes. I have one pair of shoes, which I’ve been wearing now for over two years. My shirts are getting kind of frayed and I need a new suit and some dress pants.
After I got off the phone, as I said, I typed up my dossier and watched Dallas. After the show, I called Dad, who was watching it, too. Grandma Sylvia is a bit improved and they’re not taking her to the Heart Institute until Wednesday.
The weather is cool down in Florida, and Dad sold $27,000 worth of Sasson jackets to Burdines this week.
I’m tired and dizzy and I’m going to stop writing here and try to get to sleep.