8.3.13, 9:43 AM

Hi Der,

It’s day one in Asheville. The house is built into the face of a small mountain. It has a fine view. The world is wonderful. Everything I wrote yesterday I have already deleted. Hotel lobbies are no place—

Umm. Mid-sentence I heard a noise outside on the porch. I checked. This has to be a good sign. Pictures attached.

     

It’s a black bear cub. He must have smelled the BBQ chicken we grilled last night.

On October 18, 1951, a Thursday, Steinbeck wrote the following entry in his journal. “I should not permit myself the indiscipline of overwork. This is the falsest of economies.”

Maybe this trip is a good thing. Maybe four-hour days (in Asheville) as opposed to 10-hour days (in NYC) is a good thing. I sure have given Becca hell for making me come.

In his journal exactly 62 years ago on August 3, 1951, Steinbeck wrote, “I need time [to write my book] and lots of it. And I am going to get it too if people get hurt. [Novel writing] seems to require a certain meanness. And I have it. I am really mixed up today.”

I don’t regret laying down the law with Becca and insisting on being left alone in the mornings while we’re here. If I’m ever going to make a living this way, I need my work time respected.

I can’t argue with her while my characters are arguing. The two will mingle. I’ll lose concentration. I’ll get mad at Becca for the things my characters did and visa versa. This kind of cross-pollination is not productive.

Maybe this trip will be good. That baby black bear put me in a fine mood. You don’t see bears in Manhattan, that’s for fucking sure. I feel better than I have since my last full day of writing. That wasn’t even a week ago. It seems like months.

I guess I’ve had The Fear all week. I have to learn to recognize The Fear for what it is. Identifying it won’t make it go away. While it lasts, I’ll still see shadows everywhere and have night terrors and be afraid of life. But at least I will know to wait it out. If I know it’s only The Fear, then I will know that it, too, will pass. This, too, will pass. I may get it tattooed on my forearm…

Becca and her parents just left. I have the house to myself until 1:30. I think it’s time to get to work. But first this, so I don’t think about it the rest of the day. As soon as everyone left, a profound sense of guilt rushed into the house and filled every nook and cranny.

Guilt is resolute, like water. If there is a way through a barrier, water will find it.

Fuck the guilt. I was going to say that I feel guilty about giving Becca hell. I do not. I was going to say I feel guilty about staying inside while her family goes on a hike. I do not. I have this one summer to myself for work, after which I’ll be busy with grad school. Next summer I’ll have to find money and health insurance. I feel no guilt.

I need to write a book. I need to be resolute, like water. I need to be mean. Since I need to take my time, I need all the time in the world. If anyone is upset or offended by my actions, I apologize. Most likely, I do not mean it and am simply lost in my fiction. But I will finish this book. And that’s that.

Time to write. No more fear. No more guilt. No more distractions. I have the whole house to myself. Did you see that bear?!

Love,

-st