The past two months I’ve been enraptured by the most difficult, dense and brilliant novel I’ve read in years. That book is Gravity’s Rainbow, perched high and dry on a number of best 100 novel lists, by Thomas Pynchon, an elusive writer with a background in rocket
Been many moons since I last sorted through my growing archive of digital pictures. Those culled span a range – late summer in Central Park, early winter in the Catskills, cold breeze on the beach, from Halloween to Thanksgiving…
News [http://news.google.com/news?hl=en&ned=us&ie=UTF-8&ncl=1122153504] is going around how the Hollywood writers are going on strike. The dire circumstances: we’ll probably be without original television for a few months. However, it raises the question of the point of unions in
So…I’ve done the contest three years in a row now, cranking out 2.5 novels. Am I ready for another one? Nah. I’m gonna focus on short stories with a New York theme. I’ll aim for the 50k words, just split between a half dozen works.
Haven’t written as much as I’d like to lately. Trying to pull out legitimate threads from all the craziness. Still unsure of this piece, might as well post it. —– The Healer The day he dies he wakes in a shaft of light, clear air from the open window.