Dispatches From The Sick Ward

My salvation happens at 4 am…

Wow.

It is presently 4:48 am on Saturday and I will be spending the weekend in the apartment in total solitude. When all four 800 lb drums of flammable liquid came off the pallet in my trailer, my vision of getting the freight off the truck quickly and scooting to my next stop came crashing to earth. The guy who let me in at this not for profit company that was to be in receipt of this hazardous material, was about 73 years old. He was not going to be able to help me.

Not too much later, a middle aged dude and a college aged kid came over to the dock and we were able to get the drums back on the pallet so they could be moved. The problem was, we were all standing so close to each other and exerting ourselves and breathing with so much labor, that I just knew I was probably going to get something from someone.

Something, like COVID, for example.

I did manage to skirt around the issue of “Corona,” as the Tik Tok and Fortniite demographic refer to it, for over three years. I never missed a single day of work because of it and with all of the vaccinations and boosters, it just feels like a mild flu or a major cold. Depending on how I want to look at it. And, right now, how I want to look at it is with one eye kind of squinty and my middle finger extended, like Johnny Cash at San Quentin. 

There, that’s as much ink I can justify wasting for that trifle.

I had fun taking a stroll down memory lane with the old, ratty songs of yesteryear but, now, I can’t help feeling like the past should stay right where it is. In the rear view. There are plenty of things happening presently and in the future that are quite a bit more exciting.

Just to review (and stop me if you’ve heard this before): I read Stephen King’s “On Writing,” Anne Lamott’s “Bird by Bird,” and Hemingway’s “On Writing.” I took MasterClasses with Atwood, Judy Blume, James Patterson, Neil Gaiman and even a few lessons with Amy Tan. I went to Cheryl Strayed’s Workshop at Omega in Rhinebeck and even sprung for the private cabin.

That, in addition to my five years of college, in addition to my 52 years on earth, prepared me for this massive and unprecedented (in my life) undertaking. Writing my first novel.

 And, in the four months that it took me to write my first draft, I read “The Sun Also Rises,” “The Bluest Eye,” “The Great Gatsby,” “Carrie,” “The Bell Jar,” “Hemingway’s Collected Short Stories,” and numerous nonfiction books for reference and research.

I can say, honestly and without exaggeration, I learned more in the four months I spent involved with this project–perhaps immersed is a better word–than I did in any undergraduate or graduate class I took and overpaid for. And as valuable as writing technique and story telling acumen are, the most important things I learned went beyond that.

The more existential lesson I learned, was where the happiest place on earth exists for me: my desk at 4am. I open my eyes, I fetch that cup of coffee and I sit down in my big leather chair that I bought myself for Christmas. I do this seven days a week. I don’t see any reason to take days off. It would make as much sense as not showering or eating once a week. It has kept me so content and absorbed, I hardly noticed the winter, at all. And this is New York, north of Manhattan. That’s no easy feat.

So, as far as “nothing good” ever happening after 4 am, I’m going to dispute that for the rest of my life. My salvation happens after 4 am.

And, look, if I’m all over the place, please excuse me this week. I have heard tell of COVID weakening certain faculties, and for all I know, I could be shooting around from one subject to another, pissing everyone off.

Okay, so I finished my first draft on April 22nd, and according to many great and award winning authors, the thing to do is put the manuscript away for six weeks and become involved in something else. Then, after six weeks has elapsed, I am to take out the novel and read it. Then write a second draft. According to my calculations, that will be June 6th.

In the interim, I am working on a second novel that I am truly excited about. This idea does not have an inkling in common with “Calliope in a Cruel World,” my first novel. My agent hated the title, but I figure that’s the least of what I need to be concerned with right now. She and I went out to lunch in February during Restaurant Week and ate at Gallagher’s Steakhouse on 52nd St. She told me that she was very excited that I was stepping over into the world of fiction, but she couldn’t represent me with a good conscience. She says she never deals with fiction and wouldn’t even know where to begin with finding a publisher for it right now.

That was fine. At least I got to take her to lunch and then record an episode of “Thank You, Heartbreak,” with Chelsea Leigh Trescott. That episode came out Tuesday and I recommend you listen to it if you are going to be in the car for an hour.

Okay, consider the towel thrown in.

I have COVID and my brain sounds like…a Calliope in a Cruel World?

B

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