Casey,
I’m bored at work so I thought I’d write an email to waste time. Here’s some advice: If people bitch you out at work for no good reason and treat you like a kindergartener, have the receptionist sign your pay slip and walk out. But I know you’re too chicken to do that. You’d suffer through the torture and wait until the end of the week to quit. Thank God it’s Thursday, though. After tomorrow don’t ever return to Goodwill, even if you have no money and are dying of starvation.
You should start revising the “Driving West” story you wrote over the summer. Print it out tonight and look it over. You’ve been writing a lot about trips and driving; you’ve been autobiographical. That’s good. The images and events are crisp and clear when you write them, and you don’t have to struggle with landscape or use Wikipedia to find if maple trees grow in Monterey County. Plus, Nebraska is easy to describe. But do they grow wheat there, like in the story? I can’t remember. You need to focus on the main character’s urge to pee (I can’t remember his name right now, but most likely it’s Wes). It comes in too late in the first draft. It needs to be front and center. I don’t know what to do with everything else, especially the list of things he’s packed and his intentions with relocating. He’s starting over again, purging everything he doesn’t want or need in his life. He’s choosing a path for himself, setting out on his own, much like you did. Use the list and his adventure to emphasize his mindset. And you have to draw out the Americana in that.
As for the new, “Lost in Monterey County” piece: Finish the first draft and let it sit. Transcribe it and work out the kinks later. Let it flow for now. Do what you want with it. Your mind will clear a path for meaning and metaphor when you least expect it.
I called Mike last night. Everything in Iowa City is the same, as always.
Speaking of Iowa City, you need to write a piece about the south side. When you go back do some interviews and go on a police ride along in the old hood. Talk to Ross Wilburn and the Broadway Neighborhood Center. You can do other phone interviews after you leave. The Press-Citizen may be interested in a story, or you can write up a first person for the opinion page. With an opinion page as bad as theirs they might want something to fill Op-Ed space so they won’t have to. The idea of a first person opinion essay sounds better to me. You were never one for investigative journalism, or newspaper journalism in general.
The Jorge Luis Borges book you bought looks interesting. But … um … what the fuck is it? It’s supposed to be fiction, but it doesn’t read like it. You should have read through it more at the book store before ordering it online. You could have used that fourteen dillies to buy other, useful things. Like food. Or beer.
You need to shave.
Consider getting a real mattress.
You should pray the Santa Clara basketball tickets come in the mail before the game on Saturday. They may be available at will call, too. It’ll be awesome to see a game there. The arena is intimate and the seats are close to the court. But it’s no Carver, no cathedral of college basketball. Carver is a gem. Too bad the men’s team has a lame duck coach. The university must be too busy pampering their football program to even consider their hoops legacy. It’s a shame. I can’t believe dad could sever his support because of one man. But I think I’m beginning to understand. Can I suffer through five more seasons of it, if it lasts that long? It’ll be tough.
The leaves on the deciduous trees are changing now. Some changed in October, but many are changing now. It’s later than I’m used to, but I’m not complaining. Fall wouldn’t be the same without a final, brilliant display of color as the trees shed their foliage. October wasn’t the same. It wasn’t as spooky and chilly. It felt more like a second September. One of the best memories I have is of a hayrack ride through the groves of Wilson’s Apple Orchard north of Iowa City. We sat on a wooden flatbed trailer covered with straw (or hay; I can’t remember the difference) and a tractor pulled us around. There were only a handful of people with us. It was intimate and idyllic. It was a chilly afternoon in October. I was in fifth grade. The thing is I don’t remember picking any apples. We just enjoyed the ride. A couple years later they had changed things, and the tractor pulled a long trailer with wooden seats. More people were there. The fall rides had become popular and weren’t as memorable.
I’m getting the hell out of here. Later. Peace.
~Casey
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