A Writer’s Diary Entries From Mid-March, 1998

by Richard Grayson

Thursday, March 12, 1998

3 PM on a rainy afternoon. I felt better last evening after I got into bed at an obscenely early hour and fell asleep soon after.

Mom called and said they were being hit with the cold wave that’s struck the Midwest and East. Yesterday it was warmer here (75°) than in Miami (65°).

There hadn’t been any mail of consequence all week, so Mom hadn’t sent anything out to me. I told her a little about things here, but she couldn’t really understand what I was talking about – as usual.

This morning I worked on the manuscript, shuffling stories and changing characters’ names and stuff, for an hour before I did my make-do exercises. Then, at 9 AM, I drove to downtown Mountain View, to the cybercafé on that city’s Castro Street again.

On AOL, there were messages only from the people I’ve been in recent contact with – and there were far too many of Camille’s inane forwards, which I automatically delete.

Patrick said he wished he were here. At Broward Community College, they seem to have reopened the South Campus English Department chair search, and people want to draft him – as they should, since he would be the logical choice and would be superb at the job.

Ross, the guy here in San Jose, gave me his phone number and sent me a picture of him and his boyfriend; since I’m not attracted to either of them, I feel comfortable calling him.

Sean said he’s fine, that he went skiing in February, and not much else. I emailed Tom and Josh brief notes.

There were two notes from Alice, and yesterday’s said that Colin Dickerman at Rob Weisbach Books sent back the three extra stories yesterday, saying they’d published only one short story collection (Gene Stein’s) and wouldn’t know how to market my book.

To me, that’s honest. And of course, it’s also flattering if it’s sincere and I interpret it in its best light: they rejected my unmarketability, not the quality of my writing.

Alice seems to think Michael Pietsch of Little, Brown actually wants to see my book. Well, I’ll have it ready before I leave here. Let Alice knock herself out sending out the sample package to editors. Eventually I’ll find a publisher for it among small presses or do the job myself, borrowing someone’s imprint.

If I have to self-publish, it will mean delaying the book for a few years until I have money. Still, that won’t matter – and as I said, it would be kicky to publish a book in the each of the decades of the ’70s, ’80s, ’90s and ’00s. (’00s?)

Alice has sold only two small books this year, but she doesn’t seem to be discouraged and she’s not letting it stop her from taking another European vacation: she and Andreas are going to Amsterdam.

I wonder if the economics of New York trade publishing will eventually cause even highly commercial literary agents like Alice to suffer financially. But she’s always so relentlessly upbeat.

I left a good tip with the Vietnamese couple who run the cybercafé because I intend to come back every week to check my email – just in case there’s anything urgent, which I doubt. (Al Gore and the Russian prime minister were coming to the area today to visit high-tech worksites, the buzz in the café went.)

From Mountain View, I took a freeway east to Milpitas, in the northeast of the Valley. On the shelves of their library, I found With Hitler in New York, a very well-preserved copy that had probably never been taken out. I telnetted to Lexis/Nexis to see my clippings and other stuff.

The only Walmart in the Valley is in Milpitas at this huge power center, and there I bought $67 worth of stuff. Also at the center, I bought newspapers at Borders and got the cheapest gas I’ve found, $1.15 a gallon, at Arco, which takes only debit cards.

On the way back to Saratoga, I saw a Florida license tag with “Broward” on it and an FIU sticker on the bumper, and that reminded me of home.

It was 1:30 PM before I returned here, just as the rain had begun to fall. There were messages from Sue in response to my message at her house – I’ll call her tomorrow at her toll-free work number at VirX – and from Michael and Kathryn: tonight’s potluck is being moved to the apartment next to mine, where Daniel was staying last week. I’ll bring blueberry muffins and a pomelo (the giant grapefruit).

This is terrible, but I don’t feel so bad about not working today, partly because I know that my work is nearly impossible to “market.” And marketing is everything these days of art and journalism as showbiz dominated by Wall Street’s winner-take-all mindset.

The New York Times articles on adjuncts inspired a lot of adjuncts and former adjuncts to write letters to the editor today. In some Western states, legislators have introduced bills to raise adjunct salaries.

Saturday, March 14, 1998

7 PM. The sounds of a wedding – dancing, and just now an old Motown song – are penetrating the walls from the wedding reception downstairs.

I know it would drive many artists crazy, but it makes me happy. These are the sounds of life: people celebrating a wedding, laughing, having fun. And I feel I can participate in it vicariously.

An hour or so ago, I was writing about the 1970s in reworking “They Don’t Make Nostalgia Like They Used To,” and suddenly the band – or the DJ, I can’t tell which . . . no, it’s a DJ – played the Bee Gee’s “Staying Alive” and it inspired me. Now Sinatra just came on with “New York, New York” and I think it’s great.

Last evening I felt antsy, but I went out to the show at the Carriage House – early, actually, so I could get some air and try to get centered. None of the other artist residents showed up, so I sat by myself, although next to people on one side.

The Celtic Fiddle Festival was four guys – a Breton, an Irishman and two Scotsmen – who played the fiddle and guitar. The music was relaxing and did, in fact, calm me down.

Tickets normally cost $22, and like last week with Cyrus Chestnut, I was grateful to be able to attend for free. I did sleep well once I got back into bed and I felt much better today.

Kerry Dolan called yesterday afternoon and she said she, Matt Iribarne, and someone else – Mike Fleming, I presume – wanted to come to visit me next weekend. She’ll have to get back to me after she speaks to the others.

Kerry sounded a little discouraged, and she said that this past fall she thought about giving up writing. “So who doesn’t?” I asked.

She feels better now, but she also feels trapped with her boyfriend in their small San Francisco apartment. They went to New York, but living there seems very expensive. (To me, the Bay Area is even more expensive, but who knows?)

She’s still teaching at USF and surprised me by saying how even adjunct jobs are impossible to get out here, that the community colleges want people with M.A.s in composition, not MFAs.

Kerry didn’t apply to Ragdale again “because it would make me feel bad if I got rejected after being there.” I’d never think like that.

At 2 PM, I had that phone interview with Gloria Klaiman in Jenkintown, who’s doing that book on artists and the jobs they have to take to survive. She said my views about my “art” and my jobs sounded healthy.

Well, I’m just a realist. I’m perfectly happy to say that writing is my “hobby” because I can’t “make a living” at it – which is not to say that writing isn’t important to me because one’s hobby can be at the core of one’s life.

Perhaps if I were more dedicated or hardworking, I’d feel better. But there’s no point in despairing or being bitter. It may be sad that it’s not 1915 or 1955, when publishing was a different kind of business, but it’s 1998, so get over it.

When Alice finally gives up on getting my book published and I get settled, I’ll start trying to find a small press to do it, and if, after a few years, I can’t get one to do it, I’ll publish it myself.

This morning I went out to The Pruneyard, a shopping center whose Barnes & Noble has a real café, not just the Starbucks attached to the one at the mall closer to here, and I read the paper and drank iced tea.

At 10 AM, I went over to the public library, where I got on Lexis and Netscape. I need to figure out how I’m getting to Ucross, though I have more than six weeks till April 27. I also checked on my Maryland admission status: still pending.

Back here at 11:15 AM, I got into the villa before the noon wedding began. I did go out once, to see if the front wooden doors were open (they were, but I don’t know if they are now) and to stand outside and get some fresh air.

Paige called and asked me to let her and Joelle into the villa tonight because they had a video of The Thin Man. There’s a TV and VCR in the room next to mine, where Daniel and his wife had been staying. I said it would be no problem.

I’m going to start dancing now, I think.

Sunday, March 15, 1998

4 PM. “You sound as if you like having adventures,” Gloria Klaiman said when she was interviewing me yesterday for her book about artists in America and the jobs they have to take to survive.

This morning, when I got up after a good night’s sleep, I decided to go to San Francisco. It hadn’t occurred to me before I woke up and saw that it was going to be another nice, warm day – but once my instinct kicked in, I made sure I left at 8 AM, taking I-280 through the mountains around Los Altos Hills and beyond.

It was a beautiful ride, and I got excited as I neared San Francisco, which seems even more beautiful than it looks in pictures. Of course, I expected the hills, but what hills!

I was thrilled to the point where I exclaimed to myself in the car, “I’m in San Francisco!” as I got off I-280 and took Highway 1/19th Avenue north.

The first person I saw as I passed the city and county line was a homeless man, so I know San Francisco is no paradise. I took the streets into Golden Gate Park and then right up to the Golden Gate Bridge, getting off at the observation point parking lot.

The bridge is beautiful and the bay is gorgeous, and everything else is a cliché. No brilliant observations from me. I thought of walking across the bridge, just to challenge my agoraphobia, but I didn’t do it, more because of time than fear.

However, I did walk across about a quarter of the span – which is still pretty damn good for an agoraphobic. I smiled at the Asian tourists clicking away on their cameras.

Back in my car, I drove down Divisadero Street – I mean “down” as in “south.” The hills were incredibly steep and the stops at each corner made me wonder if I’d go into reverse.

Divisadero turns into Castro, and I found parking on 18th Street, a few blocks away. Again, I’d seen movies of the Castro, but experiencing it something else again.

It’s unlike any gay neighborhood in Manhattan or South Beach. Instead, it’s an area filled with gay men, and not just beautiful young ones but real people of all ages.

I walked up and down Castro Street, looking at the storefronts and the people. Years ago, it would have felt weird, but today I felt comfortably at home.

A boy of about twelve asked me to sign his petition asked calling on the Boy Scouts to change their policy on gays, and after I signed, the boy’s father, Scott Cozza, thanked me.

We talked about the New Jersey state appellate court victory in the Dale case two weeks ago and the upcoming California Supreme Court decision.

Scott and his son Steven have founded a group called Scouting for All, and I wished them good luck.

On Market Street, I paid a quarter to try an experimental self-contained, self-cleaning bathroom; I wish every city had them.

After another long walk, I got back in the car and drove on Market Street toward Fishermen’s Wharf, and then I drove around North Beach and downtown.

It was too crowded to find parking even on Sunday morning, so I just continued to drive, checking out the Transamerica Pyramid, the Moscone Center, the Italian restaurants in North Beach, and the colorful houses in the hills beyond. San Francisco houses have a distinctive architecture, though I don’t have the vocabulary to describe it.

I took Highway 101 back home rather than I-280, and so I got to smell the air from the bay and see the airport and 3Com (formerly Candlestick) Park, etc.

Getting off for a detour to check out the somewhat slummy East Palo Alto and the more expensive homes around Embarcadero Road, I again got on a freeway, the 85.

I’d bought the Sunday New York Times in the Castro, but I stopped at Crown Books for the Merc, got $1.15 gas at Arco, and discarded parts of the newspapers that I didn’t want while drinking Diet Coke (hoping it would cure my headache) at the Jack in the Box at Campbell.

Back here at Villa Montalvo, there are more weddings today and lots of people on the lawn. While I was in San Francisco, I first removed my light denim jacket and then my sweater, and now the sky is cloudless and it’s warm enough for shorts and t-shirts here.

Mom called and said she had bad news, but it was only that I didn’t get accepted at Berkeley. Naturally, I’d be ecstatic to have gotten in, but I wasn’t upset and in fact was quite relieved that was as “bad” as the news got.

I just figure it wasn’t meant to be. If I get into Maryland, that will be great, and if I don’t get into J-school there or at Arizona State, I’ll figure out some other places to go and something to do. I could stay in New York City this fall, or I could go back to Florida (not Fort Lauderdale) or I could go to Phoenix anyway or go somewhere else.

When Gloria interviewed me and I told her about the different jobs I’d had – at LIU and at the Teacher Education Center at FIU, at BCC and at CGR in Gainesville, at Nova and FAU and CUNY and elsewhere – it sounded as if I’d “walked into” these positions without having done any planning.

Well, in a way, I hadn’t. I’m convinced that there are no bad choices, that wherever I end up, whatever I end up doing, it will be a learning experience.

Berkeley would have been great, just as having a book published by Rob Weisbach would have been great – but I’m glad I first tried places where it was hard to get accepted.

Sure, if I’d wanted to go to J-school in California, I could have played it safe and applied to Cal State-Northridge, but why not get rejected by the best? This is not to say I’m not scared, but all day in the car I’ve listened to Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway, and right now I’m just enjoying this amazing day.

Monday, March 16, 1998

8 PM. Yesterday at 6 PM, I met Joelle in the parking lot and I followed her directions to get us to downtown San Jose, to the brand-new theater of the San Jose Repertory, a splendid building in a well-designed complex of shops and other building.

Our complimentary tickets were at the box office, and we had great seats in the center of the portico (like a mezzanine).

Old Wicked Songs was a terrific two-character play by Jon Marans about a young American piano prodigy, stuffy and burned out, who’s forced to study Schumann’s Dichterliebe with a Viennese voice teacher in 1986, when Kurt Waldheim is running for president of Austria.

Though the play is a bit schematic, both Joelle and I loved it; she, of course, appreciated the musical background, and we both related to the Jewish themes of the play.

The two actors were excellent, and the younger guy was really cute. Joelle and I kvelled about the play on our way out, and then I said, “What makes it even better was that it was free.” And then, after a beat: “I’m so Jewish!” She thought it was funny.

The play’s themes, like Schumann’s song cycle of finding joy and ecstasy amid sadness and suffering, resonated with me. And I thought about my own lack of Sitzfleisch, what the professor character talked about: the ability to sit and work at my writing.

I didn’t mind driving to the theater and back, and now I’ve learned how to unlock the gate to the estate in case I ever come in late again.

This morning, it occurred to me that when I typed up “My Basic Problem,” a story from the mid-1980s in a female voice, I should revise the story to make the narrator Helene the protagonist of my 1970 Kent State story, “Coping.”

I worked to the piece for about ninety minutes this afternoon: not much Sitzfleisch, but better than nothing.

However, after a magical day like yesterday, today was bound to be a letdown. It didn’t help that I awoke at 2:30 AM and stayed up for a couple of hours.

Because NPR’s Morning Edition comes on KQED at 3 AM (6 AM Eastern Time), I have an unfortunate excuse to stay awake and get my news-junkie’s fix, thus contributing my sleep deprivation this afternoon and evening.

At Peet’s Coffee this morning, I sat reading the paper and drinking iced tea while at the next table, a woman was giving another woman a hard sell on her company’s Web service, the point of which was hard to discern. I really knew I was in Silicon Valley.

At 11:30 AM, when I got back here, loaded with frozen food and produce from Lucky’s, I called Budget and kept the car for two more weeks, till March 31. I realize I could be paying less at Enterprise, but I’d rather just stay with this Tracer till the end of the month.

If my original plans had remained, I’d be leaving one week from this Friday along with the others; that seems like such a short time away, so I’m thrilled that I got another month here at Villa Montalvo.

As Joelle pointed out, I’ll be the only artist resident here from March 27 to April 3.

Tuesday, March 17, 1998

9 PM. This morning was chilly and overcast. When I went out at 9 AM, I remembered how I got to downtown San Jose on Sunday night, so I drove to the same area, around San Carlos and Market.

I hung out at the city library till 10 AM, when the Tech Museum of Innovation across the street opened. Filled with classes of school children, the museum was a bit disappointing. Still, it was fun to watch kids interact with the hands-on exhibit.

One thing that seeing children made me realize is that diversity is not just a cliché. Not only were there white, black and Hispanic kids, but there many different Asian kids.

At most University of California campuses today, Asian-Americans are the largest ethnic group, and that will only get more pronounced this fall, when undergraduate affirmative action ends.

Anyway, at the Robot Zoo, the biggest exhibit, I watched CAD software create digital rhinos and saw kids change the patterns of a robot chameleon. I also observed a computer robot arm pick the correct blocks to spell out the name of a little girl who inputted the letters (“Lakishma”).

Along with a bunch of kids, I went through one of those “clean rooms” to watch computer chips being made out of raw silicon. “My father makes chips at Intel,” one Japanese-American little boy told his friends.

And I discovered I’d weigh 23 pounds on the moon.

Back at the villa, I completed the revision of “My Basic Problem,” wincing at some of the too-cute stuff I let get into the story when I first wrote it in the mid-1980s.

Just now I heard Jane Hamilton give an hour’s talk on radio about the life of a writer, and not for the first time did I realize that compared to someone like Jane – it was nice to hear her voice, though she sounded as rushed as she always did at Ragdale, as if she had to complete her next novel by morning – I’m no writer.

On the other hand, I did finish the story and put it somewhere in the book manuscript, which now runs 210 pages.

After lunch, I went to the Saratoga Library and got on the Internet, checking out Lexis and Justin Clouse’s diary on his Koool Page and other stuff (the CGR Florida Bar Fellows’ Symposium next week is on domestic violence). Then I walked around the campus of West Valley College for half an hour. I do miss teaching.

I’ve been thinking about how little I think about Gianni although for two months it seemed as if he had been the most important person in my life. Well, he was, I guess.

From the perspective of 3,000 miles away, Gianni and now appear to have been a highly unlikely couple. At another time in both our lives, we probably wouldn’t have had enough in common to have one decent conversation.

Yet we talked endlessly, and for a while I was in love with him, or I loved him, and he was very fond of me. How strange and wonderful.

Except for my hysteria on the day my hard disk crashed, I handled the transition from lover to friend less badly than usual, though I don’t know if Gianni was left feeling disgusted with me.

I’m glad we don’t need each other anymore, and I’ll always be smiling when I remember the good times we spent together. Corny, huh?

Well, if this were for publication, I’d be revising and heavily hitting the delete key. But this is for me, and it’s spontaneous.

Paul Fericano called, and he’ll be over Friday afternoon, after he takes his daughter to school. This afternoon became warm and cloudless; I’m glad it isn’t raining as much as it was earlier this month.

Friday, March 20, 1998

7 PM. Last evening’s pot luck was enjoyable, mostly because Kathryn, Michael, Paige, Liz and Joelle are all such intelligent, interesting people.

In a way, I wish I had the chance to have dinner with them every night, for the conversation is so lovely. And people actually liked my yams and cherries concoction!

We’re having our next group dinner on Wednesday because Kathryn is going out of town for a few days and everyone else is leaving next Friday or Saturday – which is when I was originally supposed to be leaving, too. I’m thrilled that I’ll be able to stay here another month.

Kathryn said that Melissa Stein, a San Francisco poet who’s Jewish, will be coming and taking Liz’s apartment across from me. Melissa placed second in this year’s Phelan Award for poetry.

Also, the director of Ucross will be here in early April, so I’ll get to see her before I go to Wyoming.

It was 9:30 PM when I got back to my room, too late to call Deirdre back (and I couldn’t find the time to call her today).

This morning I had to get up at 7:30 AM to take a shower before they shut off the hot water. So today was the first day I didn’t exercise here.

Paul came at 9 AM. I met him outside and we went to the Boulangerie in Los Gatos to sit and talk over iced tea and coffee.

Although he and I have known each other for over twenty years, we’d never met in person before. But I knew what Paul looked like and how he sounded, and today felt like we’d been hanging out together for years.

I liked learning about Paul’s Catholic upbringing and his time in the seminary; his life with Kathy and their daughter Kate and his “second wife” Pam; and his poetry and the novel he’s got 1,000 pages of by now (although he likes only about 300 pages).

We talked about the literary scene and how special the 1970s were: a time when literary magazines and small presses were springing up everywhere. Back then, we could get our stuff published all over the place.

“And then – pop! – the culture became shit,” Paul said. “Now it’s swallowed up everything.”

We reminisced about the Howitzer Prize hoax and how Poets & Writers blackballed Paul after he conned them into writing about the prize as if it had been a real literary award. God, we had some exciting times back then.

We talked about getting older. Paul gave up smoking years ago and is now a vegetarian who takes dietary supplements the way I do.

I shaved off my beard at the first sight of gray hairs while Paul colors his mustache black. Both us look young for our age.

Of course, Paul and Kathy have been married for maybe 25 years, and Kate is now a bright freshman at Hillsdale High School in San Mateo.

Paul and I talked for hours, in the café and then up here until he left around 3 PM. (He said I’d have to pay $1,500 a month to rent an apartment like this in Saratoga.)

When I walked Paul back to his car, he said he wanted me to meet his family and Don Skiles, who’ll be on spring break starting March 30.

Downstairs at the office, I got the letters that Mom had mailed on Tuesday. Coincidentally, she called just as I returned to the room.

Mom said that tomorrow she’ll send out my $445 unemployment check and the $380 Target refund.

Today I got the $200 CompUSA refund, which I deposited in NationsBank by mail. I also got the Exxon credit card I applied for on my first night here in California.

Mom said the Herald wants to print my essay on W.E.B. Du Bois and she can’t find a good photo to send them. I told her to tell the editor that the paper has several old photos of me on file. I doubt the essay will get published anyway, as Black History Month has been over for weeks.

After dropping off my bank deposit and some bills I paid at the Saratoga post office, I went to the library to check my e-mail.

Leora Zeitlin asked if I could contribute a remembrance of Ed Hogan to be read at his memorial service “since you had such a long association and friendship with him.”

They need it by next Friday. Apparently no one could figure out where I was, as the last address anybody had for me was in Gainesville.

Leora said the past few months have been dreadful. She’s had to get involved with Zephyr Press again in order to sort through and take over all of Ed’s projects.

I can just imagine how hard his sudden death has been for everyone. While it was great to finally meet Paul Fericano today, I feel terrible that I won’t ever get a chance to see Ed Hogan again.

I’ve been having such a great time here at Montalvo, I almost feel guilty about it. I don’t even know how to put the experience into words, though I guess that’s obvious.

Saturday, March 21, 1998

7:30 PM. I just got in, and the Saturday night wedding is going full steam. This one’s got a live band instead of a DJ and there are lots of kids running around the villa. The band just played “With a Song in My Heart,” and I have the strange, if not altogether unpleasant feeling that I live above a catering hall.

Driving on I-880/Highway 17 from Milpitas just now and listening to Garrison Keillor’s Prairie Home Companion (tonight it’s local, from San Francisco) ten minutes ago, I marveled at how adaptable human beings are. I feel so acclimated to my life here in California even though I’ve been here only two and half weeks.

Today I ran into Liz a couple of times: doing laundry this morning and at the Westgate Mall this evening. She said it’s going to be hard to leave Montalvo in a week, but she’s been here three months and the artists who stayed here only one month complained about how fast the time went.

Perhaps it’s because the days speed up now that I’m older, but I remember when three or four weeks at MacDowell or the Virginia Center for Creative Arts or Millay seemed a long time.

However, as Liz pointed out, here we’re not isolated (as I will be later this spring at Ucross) and constantly working in our studios but are essentially living our normal lives in the community.

I wanted to go to the city today (here, San Francisco is “the city,” the way we in Brooklyn used to mean Manhattan when we said we were going to “the city”) because it would be my last chance without rain for this whole week, but things kept interrupting. Oh well. Each time I go to San Francisco, I’ll take in as much as I can.

I needed to do laundry at 9 AM, after I’d exercised, washed myself around (there was still no hot water, but I managed – I adapt easily) and dressed. While my stuff was in the washer, I bought the newspapers and filled up my gas tank, and while it was in the dryer, I bought a few staples (bananas, yams, cheese) and went to the library.

After lunch, I went back to the library to e-mail a letter I’d composed to the New York Times. It’s about the gay factor in teen suicides (a recent study found black youths catching up to whites in suicide rates, probably because more African-Americans are middle class now), and if they print it, I’ll be ecstatic, but I can’t expect them to, not after all my letters that they’ve already printed.

I did an extra twenty minutes of exercise with the weights this afternoon to make up for not working out yesterday; I’ve adapted to not having Body Electric tapes.

Unexpectedly, it rained this afternoon. But after 5 PM it cleared up, and I went out, though I was not sure where I was going.

I thought maybe the Borders bookstore would have the Sunday New York Times on Saturday night the way the Borders in Fort Lauderdale did, but I had to settle for tomorrow’s Chronicle & Examiner.

In the meantime, I sat in a comfy couch at Borders and read about Wyoming. It looks as if the best way for me to get there is by jet to Billings, Montana.

The three-hour bus ride from Billings to Sheridan arrives too late for the Ucross people to pick me up, so I’ll either spend the night in Billings or maybe rent a car and return it later if I can arrange for someone to pick me up at the Sheridan bus station. Or I guess I could stay overnight in Sheridan.

Those commuter planes still scare me. Of course I’ve still got an unused ticket from San Jose back to Miami via Phoenix on America West. Well, I’ll work on figuring out what to do.

No, I didn’t write today, and I don’t feel guilty about it, either. I can wait till Monday to get back to my writing.