Good morning. By the clock at my elbow, it is now 8:15 PM
as I begin my first serious attempt at a journal-what grown-ups call a diary.
An hour or a page a day should help me become a better writer, although I
wonder if it's just a lost cause.
I tried keeping diaries in the past - once when my mother
brought back a bound diary book from Spain (it was called "Mi
Diario" I believe) when she went to
Europe in 1969; I wrote about 10 pages (including mentioning an imaginary
sister, for at that time I was hung up on having a sister-a girl in the family;
what a concept!) before I lost it somewhere; once again when I was 14 and had
bought a rather expensive green blank book at the Ideal Stationary store in Strawberry.
I wrote there sporadically over a year and a half and I think including my
junior or senior high school years; as well as other less serious attempts. The
main problem with these "diaries" is that I most mostly used them to
describe events of the day, and reliving one's day tends to get boring unless
you're a soldier or an egomaniac. But this time it will be different. This
time, although time will be spent on events, I will write a great deal about,
well, to use a tired 70s cliché, where my head is at. As I grew older (today
completes the third month of my 22nd year), I become more capable of being able
to (now there is a redundant phrase if ever I saw one-watch out for that,
Christopher) express where exactly in the world my head is at. This "JOURNAL"
marks my first serious attempt at that.
Another problem with previous diaries is that I tried too
much to include every little thing at one time. Were I in that state of mind
now, I would hastily scribble out everything on my mind: my loves, my concerns,
my interests, my worries, and so forth. Once all of these would be elaborated
on, my repertoire would be exhausted. I liken this experience to George
Harrison in 1970; obscured in the creative shadow of John Lennon and Paul
McCartney, the fellow really cut loose with a triple album when the group broke
up. This flood of creativity emptied his muse quite considerably, (it is
phrases like "quite considerably" that I'm trying to wean myself away
from in this journal. What purpose does" quite considerably" serve
other than take up space?) and if he ever did recover, it took most of the 70s
for that to happen (this is just the first of many Beatles references; be
prepared, reader), but instead of foolishly attempting to cover all grounds, I
will handle my categories as they come up.
(By the way, in my previous parenthetical statement, I
wrote as if I were addressing a reader, a separate person. Unlike my brother
Mark with his, I have no intention of showing any part of this journal with
anyone, as this is where my private thoughts go. Perhaps when I am older and
all this means nothing. But for now-ABSOLUTE secrecy.)
Well, shall we begin some discussions? Let's begin on a
couple of happy notes while my creativity (read "urge to write")
ebbs. First (and whether this is a happy note remains to be seen) I finished my
latest short story today at my father's house (I knew I forgot something in my
entry headers-my location. Maybe I'll include it by the dates, but for now I'll
just say that I am writing on my desk in room 1106 of Verducci Hall at San Francisco
State University), a comic-tragedy called The Pimp. It is my second and
final story from my short story class, the first being a" juvenile
study" which was titled Stones
Across the River. The latter was generally well-received, but the
instructor, Carolyn Doty, stated quite explicitly that a) it would be better if
I tackled a more mature subject (which I think I did The Pimp) and b)
that DOG STORIES DON'T SELL. Stones was not a dog story, but never mind.
Anyway, I submitted Stones to the
campus literary magazine, Alchemy, and I have no idea if they publish
everything or select pieces, but I think that Stones will only be
included if they do publish everything. Not that it's bad, but it could be
better. I only submitted it to see how far I might be from holding the status
of a published writer. And The Pimp is a better story
anyway, more palatable for adults and children alike. It is 14 1/2 pages long,
more than three pages longer than anything I've ever turned in at school (which
was Stones incidentally). Work is needed more, or I might do tonight in
fact, just to retype some pages, and
I think The Pimp is more worthy of further work then Stones is.
The other bit of good news: the 49ers beat the Patriots
today 21-17. Imagine! The 8-4, supposedly Super Bowl bound Pats, with the NFL's
best personnel (so they say) with Grogan, Francis, Ferguson, Jackson etc. are
whipped by the lowly 4-8 49ers, with no defense and their best players (running
back Paul Hofer, defensive end Dwayne Board) out for more than half the season.
The secret of today's game? Grogan stunk up the joint, to put it eloquently.
Would you believe he threw six (6) interceptions against the defense that had
only nine picks in 12 games coming in? First a deflection fell into recently
reacquired Gerard Williams' hands, then Ray Rhodes lifted a bad pass and almost
went all the way, then Ricky Churchman picked off 2, one of them a deflection,
then finally Dwight Hicks and Keena Turner picked off game savers deep in 49er
territory in the last minutes of the fourth quarter. It was 21-3 until Montana,
who started, hurt his knee against a New England helmet and had to leave,
replaced by Steve DeBerg, who in almost blowing the game with a quick
interception and an obvious inability to move the team, may have eliminated
himself from any speculation about starting. And rightly so. If either of the
two is the 49er quarterback of the future, it's Montana, who must play the last
three games (New Orleans, Atlanta and Buffalo) to prove that he can play NFL
football. Better as he was than DeBerg today, he was not all that impressive,
for his three touchdown passes (to Freddie Solomon, Earl Cooper and Eason
Ramson) were all set up by in terceptions. But it's the defense’s job to
intercept, to set up scores, and 49er quarterbacks have gone without this
luxury for the past three seasons. And Montana did have some nice touchdown
throws. Anyway, Montana should play all three games to prove his mettle. If he
shows improvement and definite ability, then the 49ers need not worry about a
quarterback in next April's draft. If he doesn't, maybe we should draft a
quarterback, although our primary concern is defensive help. Personally, I
believe that it is too early to make a final judgment on Montana. He needs time
and experience. He needs to (using another tired 70s cliché) pay his dues as
DeBerg did in 1978. I think (hope) he can be a more than adequate NFL
quarterback. In Walsh's offense, that would be something. Imagine a full
strength Hofer and Board meeting with a developed Montana and a good draft.
Niners in 1981!
Well, there's more I was going to talk about, but
discussions with my roommate Steve, and lots of writing (3 1/2 pages) must
terminate this entry. It is now 10:12, and I must (or should) further fix up The
Pimp. I hand in tomorrow.
Supplemental entry: I just read through The Pimp,
and I am totally dissatisfied with it. The weak parts really glared at me, and
the strong parts didn't work as well as I thought. I know I'm too subjective,
and that a writer is his own worst critic, but this story needs work, much more
than I can supply before tomorrow noon. I am so damned depressed, I don't know
if I will work on it further; it will depend on Carolyn's reaction. The story
doesn't work, but it's the best I could have done; I don't see how to improve
it. But it needs improvement. The best thing to do is let some others read it.
I think it's shit. I think I'm going to cry. I am no writer. I'm just wasting time.
HOW CAN I BE A WRITER WHEN I HATE SUFFERING SO MUCH? So I don't think I'll
touch it. I might make it worse. But what difference will it make?
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