Writing Real America
From 2005 to 2016 I had a very solitary job. I spent a lot of time listening to podcasts while I worked. When I started my paper journal I got into the habit of keeping it and my nice fountain pen on the desk all day, and from time to time I'd spend a few minutes writing in it.
I worked near the little old downtown area of our town. At lunch I'd go over to one of the eateries and spend and hour or so eating and either reading or writing. During nice weather I'd sit on the patio. This is when I started reading Henry Rollins' books and discovered some other authors like Don Bajema who were published by Henry's company, 2.13.61.
Most of the authors Henry published were pretty intense, just like him. Really good work. I wrote a few short stories that attempted that kind of intensity. They weren't bad. Some were pretty funny, according to my wife. But given the benefit of more years on me I now understand that emulating a writer so different from you is not the way to do things. I think you have to write as yourself. That's the only thing you can really keep up. Edit: that's the only thing I can keep up.
I love having breakfast food for lunch. Back then sometimes I'd go over to Denny's or Waffle House for lunch. I'd spend my time during lunch writing in my journal and observing what was happening. Neither Denny's or Waffle House (the locations I'd go to at least) were in great parts of town. Frankly they were in sort of downtrodden parts of town. The Denny's is next to an old motel, the kind with the rooms all entered from the outside, that now seems to house people in very transient states. I'd see mothers and their kids coming in and out of rooms. I'd see housekeepers with their kids running around the hotel grounds while the ladies worked.
In both Denny's and Waffle House I observed some scenes of "real America" -- people in real economic hardship or dealing with real problems.
Honestly, I often started these observations and sometimes the writing with the intent of sarcasm and harshness. Once I got into the writing I didn't find sarcasm. I found compassion birthed from the awareness that comes from quietly observing and really considering what you see.
I wrote some good blog posts. I also wrote some short essays I've never published. Now AIs will scrape even the pencil scratchings of someone like me I may never put them on the Web. They aren't Truman Capote-level work, but they are my work, created by my own human mind, and so to me they are sacred. I may put them in a paper zine and sell it after I retire.
I'll probably write a bit more about Kerouac in the coming months. I have only read On the Road. I'm about to read the Dharma Bums.
I suppose this is quite a rambling post...so be it...done for now.