Waiting
It’s a game of waiting, I guess. And being anxious. Anxious over someone telling you that the past year of your life has been wasted rewriting a book. Why does no one tell you how excruciating this whole game of publishing is? My nightmare is that the editor will want to revert back to the original, the one she actually bought for publication. She’ll be like, hey, I appreciate the hard work, but this actually is a piece of s—t, and we should really pick up where we started.
Notes should be arriving by next week.
To pass the time here in California I’m hanging with the dog, as you can see from most of these pics, and raising snails in Oakland. Apparently you need to spend two weeks feeding them greens and cornmeal before eating them. This cleans out their systems. Or, more accurately, until they become sponges for butter and garlic. France, I’ve heard, is experiencing a shortage of the wee fellas. Not the case here in Oakland — which, by the way, is the new Brooklyn, for anyone who hasn’t read The New York Times in the past week. It was damn easy to sublet my place. I should have asked for more money.
But back to snails. They’re fascinating creatures – I’ve drawn numbers on their shells with a black Sharpee, to keep track of their movements. Two is particularly rambunctious – a stocky snail, with an ochre vermiculite pattern on his shell. And impressive set of four antennae on his head. I woke up one morning to find that Two had climbed through my open window, and ascended the plastic blind, leaving a wake of goo that apparently contains more information than a data chip. Reams of information contained in that slick track.
Meanwhile I’ve been hanging out with my SF buddy Jenny Pritchett – she’s arranged some fun birthday event, can’t wait to see what it might be. My cousin came through town, along with her boyfriend. We ate tacos and drank beers and talked about the world ending any day now.
The other day I spoke with my fishing skipper Karl Jordan to lock down our fishing dates – gearing up for another summer of kicking ass on the F/V Saturday. King salmon season opens July 1st. The summer, I suppose, will be one of work, but good work. Squirreling up somewhere in June to work on edits, then fishing for the month of July, along with working on the tugboat. Funny how much one looks forward to it, and then once you start hammering on those 18-hour days in the big waters, puking over your wrists as you pull in fish, you can’t wait to get home. Life’s not wasted out there, I can say that much.
Otherwise, life moves forward. Cal enjoys San Francisco, although I found a ticket on my truck windshield the other day from Animal Control threatening to confiscate and “humanely destroy” my dog if he wasn’t removed from the truck within two hours. Keep in mind I had been gone, to get coffee, for perhaps twenty minutes, it was about 50 degrees with a marine layer blowing in, and Cal had water. A special, special place, this San Francisco. But he did enjoy Dolores Park, as you can see from above.
The Stegners, of course, are extraordinary – as is Richard Powers, who runs our workshop. Lately we’ve been struggling with the question of whether one has a moral responsibility as a writer. More on that soon. In the meantime, I’m just anxious. And thought I’d write about it. Always seems to help, for reasons I have yet to understand.
