March in Seattle is a windy, unpredictable beast, with beautiful spring days scattered amidst cold water like gold in a mining creek. You pick those out and cherish them, especially in a global pandemic.
On one of these bright days, Will and I received our first Covid vaccine at a hall just south of Pioneer Square. We took Bria and Friedrich, alternately standing in line to get our shots, then had coffee on the square at the London Plane and lunch a block over at the world-renowned Salumi where I bought Bria a black trucker hat branded with “CORO” embroidered in a bright yellow, sans-serif typeface for her birthday. She loves saucisson sec so we both agreed her advertising a woman-owned sausage brand from the best in the business is forgivable. I don’t know what typeface those letters were set in, but they stand bossy, thick, and tall, like a dark Irish stout. I love them.
Who knows what typefaces will appear in my book. On the cover, in its pages. The colophon is the last thing on my mind right now, although, now that I do think of it, the prospect of designing my own book makes me giddy.
What is on my mind is outlining and organizing, trying hard to Marie Kondo the shit out of my thoughts. And I’ll admit it: I’m using outlining as an excuse to avoid starting to actually write the first draft. Because, truth be told, I am scared. Scared because how on earth am I ever going to be as good as my favorite new writer, Kevin Barry, whom I discovered via the New Yorker Fiction podcast? Because I don’t want to just write. I want to write well.
“Tricky the paths a long love might follow, like the spiral down twists of a raindrop on a windowpane.”
Seriously, Kevin?! How the fuck did you do that? How did you drop words on paper powerful enough to stop human breath? Or this one:
“Mouth of teeth on him like a vandalised graveyard but we all have our crosses.”
Are you for real? Why did you have to go set the bar so goddamn high? It’s not even 9:00 a.m. and already, I need a drink. Some whiskey from your native Ireland, Kevin.
Digressing. Again. I turn now to much needed placations on writing the first draft:
Writing—I can really only speak to writing here—always, always only starts out as shit: an infant of monstrous aspect; bawling, ugly, terrible, and it stays terrible for a long, long time (sometimes forever). Unlike cooking, for example, where largely edible, if raw, ingredients are assembled, cut, heated, and otherwise manipulated into something both digestible and palatable, writing is closer to having to reverse-engineer a meal out of rotten food. — David Rakoff
I’m writing a first draft and reminding myself that I’m simply shoveling sand into a box, so that later, I can build castles. — Shannon Hale
Au fin, as part of my research, I googled “Aspen in the 60s and 70s” and discovered a Facebook group. I requested access, was granted it a few days later. Yesterday, I posted a question about my father and 10 hours later, the post had 39 comments. Here we go.
Shoveling.
Things That Nourished My Writing: March 16-23.
BOOKS
The Collected Stories by Amy Hempel (I will finish this by my next post – #goals).
FILM
Nature’s Fear Factor (Will has me watching all the nature and science documentaries).
FOOD
Both of these, Seattle’s Pioneer Square institutions although sadly, Cow Chip’s Pioneer Square location fell victim to the pandemic and is no longer. Sadness.
MUSIC
I like to listen to Dr. Dre when I work out.
PLACES
Queen Anne Boulevard, where Friedrich and I take long pandemic walks, looking out over the Puget Sound.
Big Howe playground, where Bria celebrated her first and ninth birthdays. March 22, 2012. Happy Birthday, Bria!
PODCASTS
The New Yorker Fiction podcast.
TECHNOLOGY
How cool are these 3D ski maps! One of Purgatory where I learned to ski.