War of the Words

This previous Saturday morning found me seated comfortably around a table with a group of writers whom I have associated with for the last couple of years. These writers--poets, really--have more writing and reading experience than I can ever hope to acquire, and I felt humbled to be among them as each of us read and critiqued poems and poets. I was openly proud at having brought for discussion a new poem for 2 consecutive meetings though neither poem has been especially refined or long.

After our meeting I stopped at home for a couple of hours then left for yet another meeting with a writer, this rendezvousing with Kominski who took time away from his own literary endeavors to meet me almost halfway between our respective abodes. And this time I was blessed with gifts: music, movie, literature hand-crafted by Kominski himself. I offered nothing and even let him buy me a beer. We wandered past forlornly empty and abandoned independent bookstores, but found some joy in the more corporate type. Topics of discussion included children, wives, baseball, writing, reading, Chicago, mothers and fathers, dogs, girlfriends, places of employment, music.... Part of the discussion included even the notebooks we favor, which may make us seem as a couple of old men with little more to discuss but truly does not. Writers--real and faux--dwell on these things, the tools of the trade. I have come to enjoy fine pens, as well, and own 3 nicely balanced wooden ones including a beauty purchased several years ago in Newport, Rhode Island. Regular pens are adequate when nothing else is around, but for serious work a good pen goes a long way. If they made me a better writer I would be doubly blessed.

After dinner and reluctant to stand outside in a cold wind that chilled us both Kominksi headed west and I headed east. I put the new music, The Who in concert, into my car's CD player and turned onto the freeway toward a moon full but for a slice of shadow at its top. In no hurry to get home I stayed in the right-most lane so that non-Who listeners could lead the way toward Sacramento, the buildings of which were illuminated brightly.

On the seat beside me were the movie and Kominski's literature, as well as a new Rhodia notebook that now begs for ink from one of my wooden pens. As if I need more notebooks, more empty pages, since most of my writing is accomplished on one of these infernal computers. Overall, however, the day's company of writers must have left an impression of some sort, for the next morning after a good bike ride I managed to sit down and type about 700 words of a novel I have been considering. This is part of the first chapter. And if you've ever tried writing a novel, you probably know that first chapters are a piece of cake because they require so little thought, so little plot. The real work comes later.