5.17.13, 8:33 AM

Dear Der,

No. Stop right there. I will not work on the novel today. But I may. And if I do, I will sit at my desk for a very long time, forcing myself to write 1,000 words. This will not be enjoyable.

I will enjoy it less when I reread it. I will erase it first thing tomorrow morning. I will hate myself for wasting another precious day. Therefore, if I’m going to waste today, I will waste it properly.

It is too hot out for this nonsense. Nothing makes me sweat more than a good day of writing. I like it when my door stays bolted for days on end.

But not today. Becca is home, and we may even go outside. Maybe we will talk to people. How terrifying and exciting.

When I walk around the city I feel like a lazy kitchen servant, wandering about the castle, soaking up the gossip of the high court, evading my dish-cleaning duties, trying not to get caught.

Oh, I have no intention of getting caught. I despise cleaning dishes. And I’m very sneaky.

Yesterday, in a text message, I told you I wanted to talk about this Steinbeck imitation business. Well, I do. It’s simple.

Steinbeck, by the time he was writing East of Eden – and it is his East of Eden journal that I am aping – was a veteran. He knew what he could know. He knew what he could not but would like to. He knew what he could not and would like to stay that way.

It’s not that I’m clueless. I know a few things. For example, I know how to read a good novel and how to read bad and mediocre ones. I even know and can explain the differences among the three.

But writing any kind of novel, I don’t know how this is done. Steinbeck does. By aping his work patterns, and maybe some style in the beginning, I will pretend to know what I do not.

I will probably fail. Do I even have a story? Does anything make sense? Does it fit together? What is the freaking story anyway? I will probably fail.

But I have to try. Steinbeck helps me focus on something that is much better than the other things on which I could focus.

(THERE IS NO STORY, DER! NONE!)

Jamie is in town this weekend. I know we say we hate Uncle Jamie, but it isn’t true. I love mine Uncle. I’m sure we will have all sorts of rowdy fun.

People are not so bad when you realize they are better than you. They have no time for my stupid worries. I am a kitchen servant. My worries are petty compared with theirs.

Others must constantly act on what I only think about. I am small. Their lives are rife with connections that are realer and more beautifully complex than anything I will ever put on the page.

But I like being petty and small. I like getting just a bit of that beautiful complexity on the page.

I am a lazy kitchen servant. I was this whole time. Why did I always tell myself I wasn’t? “You are a hard worker,” I told myself. “You are smarter and have more potential for success than most.”

Ha! Those are poisonous thoughts.

I’m so lazy. I will take a long walk today and smoke a small joint and daydream. I will not write a single sentence. I will think of nothing in particular and smile at all the people.

Today I will unbolt my door. I will get up from my desk and unbolt it very soon. I may even have a malted milkshake. And a pastrami sandwich, too.

Enough of this nonsense. I hear the head chef calling my name. He’s furious with me. If he had his way, I would clean dishes for the rest of my life. I will receive a whipping and never be allowed to leave his sight if I am caught.

I really must be going. I must stay on the move. He will never catch me.

Andiamo! (shhh, we must whisper…)

-st

 

 

The photo is of “The Many Faces of a Madman,” a drawing by Der Williams, dry-erase marker on whiteboard.