Category Archives: Blog


Letter to a friend, with a poem at the end

Dear …

I thought of you just now. I am sitting in this renovated 13th-century Italian convent between Rome and Florence, a short walk up from the train station, and your face  drifted into view. There were a lot of people here for ten days but they all left on the train today. I suppose suddenly being alone was one reason I thought of you. There had been little time to really think. Now I am alone.

I wanted to tell you some things, just being truthful, not wanting anything specific or immediate from you, but not wanting to offend you either with my bald frankness, which I realize has sometimes seemed uncivilized or cruel. As you may know, I was raised by people who spoke sharply to each other as a rule, and to us kids, with the understanding that sharp words were intellectual love and honesty. We spoke to each other with such words and it was not seen as cruelty or even bad manners. It was a point of pride. We knew what we meant.

But my wife has taught me many things in the 20-odd years we have been married. I have come to see how being too honest too quickly can seem cruel. In the spirit of that honesty, though, I will say up front that I do want something from you. Of course we all want things from each other all the time. But sometimes wanting something can cast doubt on the sincerity of what we are saying: Why are you telling me this now? You must want something from me.

Let me do this in my way. I just want to be honest, more honest than I would be if we were face to face. I want to say that I thought of you and believe it or not I felt gratitude. The word “gratitude” is in trouble these days from reckless overuse. It hardly means anything. There is even a restaurant near where I live called “Cafe Gratitude.” But I do want to say I am grateful, meaning conscious of having received much from you.

It is hot here in Castiglion Fiorentino today, hotter than we expected it to be in June. Another workshop starts in two days. People will begin arriving tomorrow. So I have only a little time. This lack of time may be one reason I got to thinking about all the people, like you, whom I’ve been able to meet and write with over the last eight years. You know, we always say in these workshops, “Let’s reflect back what we remember, what sticks with us.” I remember many things about you but some of those things have blended into a composite picture.

Here is something I wrote in the workshop yesterday, on the last day, which I thought I would send to you, which in a personal way sums up where I’m at, what it’s like to be me today. I share this because I have seen, over the years, what happens when people keep coming to these workshops. We go deeper and we get better at being able to capture a moment, where we’re at.

We’re not all big amazing genius type writers and I don’t give a damn about that, frankly. I feel that writing in this way, in a group, has given my writing something else, a home separate from the world of publication. Writing that is published has one kind of home, a big, public home where many shoppers come and go, and people can pick it up and make judgments about it, or dismiss it or do whatever they want with it. Here, though, in the group, it is like we are writing in someone’s home, and everyone is more attuned to the personal implications of each piece, and how we are affected by what is said and not said.

So I have the world that I write for publicly, and this world, where I write things and share them immediately, like just-baked biscuits. They get consumed fresh and that is that and we move on. That’s what I give a damn about: the feeling of having a home for my creative practice.

There are probably reasons that I am more comfortable sharing in a group than publishing, or at least as comfortable, and maybe we will talk about them at another time. But for now, I wanted to share with you this, a just-written piece, not agonized over, not polished but fresh and perhaps revealing in ways that I am not aware of, but which I don’t mind … while I have a moment, before the next nine-day workshop begins:


Is this a turning point?
Am I at a turning point?
How the hell would I know?
I know my history.

I remember running as a kind of change.
The only way I knew to change was to run.
Every word seems full of other meanings.
Are we in the dark or have we found a fertile garden?
Everything is ripe with more meaning than is wanted.

I know that in the past I turned and ran. Rant.
Plots have turning points. Plots are also graves.
The turning point. Remember that movie? It was
About ballet. Oh well. A plot is a grave and a
Turn is a spin and a point is an infinitesimal idea.

I learned that in geometry. Are we getting off the subject?
Welcome to the stream I dip my toe in.

Wood smoke. Bird cries. This endless thing.
Looking for a turning point, a radius. I wish I
could be witty. Is this a turning point? I have always
run. Now I try to pivot.

So I say to the therapist that I later fired,
I hate my house. He says, you hate your house?
He didn’t say anything about the house as metaphor.

Can I take a different road? Can I live in Italy?
What I came to San Francisco for now is gone.

I’m thinking about a wire transfer. Is that part of the turning?
I love the words that things are made of: wire, and transfer,
The things that money are made of, the keystrokes, the clatter,
the random number generator and who tracks, who sees, the
random numbers generated? This intrigues me as I wonder
If I am turning.

Could I simplify? Wood smoke like visiting Grandma Ann.

Now all these feelings start to come up. Why do we say come up
And not arrive, or fall down? Why do they come up? Are they
Being held down? I guess so. Duh. That’s how we do it, that’s our
Metier, our special Nordic genius for drinking and shutting up.

Shutting up and shutting down the
things that would come up or out; ever
think of that? We shut up but there is an object too that is then imprisoned.

And then I’m sure there is more. But what I wanted to share with you was that. And I said I wanted something and yes, I do. I want these workshops, when we come back to San Francisco, to be big and full of joy. I want you to come. I want you to make time in your life for these workshops, so you will share these things with me. I want them to be big, like celebrations. I want you to feel free to dig deep and be respected. I want the house to be full of your spirit once again.


On not taking pictures of extravagantly beautiful things, or Florence: Day 3

Is it the restraint of love? Is it reverence? Amid the effervescent joy of buildings that look like music; the muscular formality of a 50-foot-high gate on an ancient wall; the fleeting intoxication of wafting jasmine: Why, exactly, amid these things, do I feel the contrary impulses to stop and snap an iPhoto yet  not snap an iPhoto?

It’s reverence is what it is, no? Reverential surrender so deep snapping a photo would be like naming a nameless God or stealing a soul.

You just plain want the beauty of Florence and that’s enough. Forget the illusion that it can be taken home in a doggy bag. Just want to be here among the Hard Rock Cafe and New York City T-shirts worn by Italians that make sense when worn by Italians. Just want to be here in the shadows of the Italianate style. Just want to stand in the shadow of a medieval gate and imagine its closing in an evening.

Outside our window at the Pensione Crocini a bone-colored awning shimmers in the breeze through ancient wavy glass, looking like nothing so much as a pixellated screen momentarily frozen: emblem of colliding worlds.

OK and lemme say this, too, vis a vis distilling rules from beauty: three stories is the right number of stories for a building and its windows. Three three three three three. All up and down the Arno, buildings face the river and they all have three stories: It’s a river of architectural rules that could be spelled out like this: If you have a river, put some buildings along it. Make the buildings similar enough that there is harmony on the river, yet different enough that there is variation. Color them in shades of earthy amber, sandstone, mustard and salmon; place clay tiles on the roofs; make pale bone and white awnings that ruffle in the breeze off the river. In the distance place a tower with a crenelated wall at the top from which cannons might be shot. Put the whole thing in early spring and make the temperature between 68 and 74 degrees F. Put puffy white cumulus clouds in a blue sky and add the sound of children playing and Vespas whizzing over the Ponte Vecchio.

Tomorrow: to Le Santucce to meet folks and for three weeks spend time dreaming aloud.

p.s. I didn’t take any pictures for the aforementioned reasons i.e. some kind of scrupulosity born of profound reverence. Tomorrow however before we leave it may be different. I said to Norma on our walk today that I’m not taking pictures because you’re just going to have to take my word for it: We were here, it was beautiful beyond all imaginings and beyond all iPhoto renderings and we will leave it behind tomorrow but it will be here for you later, should you come, any time at all, until the inevitable catastrophe of time erases it all but we’ll be gone then too, all of us, won’t we?


What part of the autofiction is fiction?

Is it appropriate, in a work of autofiction, to ask, Which part is the fiction?

I think it is. Because of how people read.

The great thing about fiction is it frees the author of the ethical considerations of autobiography and memoir. When people read something that’s about something that actually happened they read one way. When they read about something that’s not supposed to have ever actually happened they read another way. They use them for different purposes. People read books that are supposedly true to get information about how to live their own lives. People read fiction sort of that way I guess but it’s different and they probably shouldn’t. The author doesn’t owe them to get the facts right. The author is free. Hooray for fiction! Hooray for freedom!

But in “a novel from life,” like Sheila Heti’s How Should a Person Be? it seems totally normal to ask, what parts of this are “from life?” and how?

Don’t you think?

Like, maybe, given how it’s likely to be consumed, it should have a consumer label, showing the ingredients?

I don't mind! Why would I mind? It's fine! Everything's fine! Reject me! Go ahead and reject me! There's always tomorrow! The future is bright! Don't give it another thought. Just go about your day like nothing happened. I'm OK. Really. I'm fine! It's a miracle!

Poets and Writers Live: Of writers and political conscience

I write from passion and desperation; my heritage is as a punk and a hippie, a fan of visionary and beat poetics, a lover of revolutionaries and rebels. I also am drawn to the severe aesthetics of writers like Nabokov and Wallace Stevens. I straddle worlds.

But let’s have a little context.

The Friday before the Jan. 10, 2015,  Poets and Writers Live event at the Brava Theater in San Francisco, I walked up and down 24th Street distributing cards and posters  for my business of giving writing workshops and arranging international retreats.

I went to Adobe Books, Alleycat Books, and Modern Times. At Modern Times I ran into journalist Denise Sullivan, and asked her about prospects for survival at the venerable progressive Modern Times bookstore. Prospects are tolerably grim as usual. This, of course, brings to mind the volatile cultural and economic changes we are living with but let’s not go there quite yet.

I mentioned to Denise that I was going to the Poets & Writers event up the street the next day. Denise mentioned that Modern Times is hoping to find a coalition of public and private support to continue playing its role as a purveyor of books geared to left and progressive sensibilities. I thought that maybe one of the panels dedicated to talk about community and support might touch on this issue but I did not formulate any plan to bring it up. I just sort of thought it would be an obvious issue. That’s not so smart, really, but it’s the truth.

So, Poets and Writers magazine is sort of the main trade magazine for graduates of writing MFA programs. I have come to love Poets and Writers magazine, actually, despite occasional exasperation at its quiet tone. It lists all the major literary competitions and who won them, as well as all the upcoming submissions deadlines for writers hoping to have their work accepted by journals. This is indispensable career intelligence. Its articles, to my mind, are a bit mild. But as I said, I burn with impatience and long to read mad, hallucinatory, transcendent voices.

This matter of taste is not evident always in my role as an advice columnist, though I have used the column as a platform to soar when possible. Nor is the fiction and poetry I write openly “political.” Yet it has always been difficult for me to sit in a room full of writers talking about process and not feel like screaming. Especially those writers who have prestigious degrees, awards and publishing arrangements. So it was difficult to sit in the Brava Theater and listen complacently.  Yet I lacked the courage to ask those questions I considered important. I thought it was more important to behave, to try to be an adult about it.

Kevin Larimer, editor in chief of Poets and Writers, opened the event by introducing former poet laureate Kay Ryan. Kay Ryan was charming and her poems were enjoyable. But neither mentioned recent events in Paris that have rocked the world.

I should have stood up and said, What about the 12 murdered cartoonists in Paris? Can we have a moment of silence?

But, timid, half-asleep me, being a good student, I sat quietly in the balcony, remembering the early 1980s when Laurie Parker (who went on to become a movie producer!) and her sister, who worked there and always carried sandwiches, would let us in to the York Theater and we would smoke cigarettes in the balcony and watch  matinees.

I sat up there in that same balcony, enjoying Ryan’s poems and reminiscing sleepily. And the whole idea of writers’ roles in the larger society, the immediacy of it and its omnipresence — the fact that it’s not a writer’s role sometimes and not other times but all the time —  got away from me. I never spoke up or even raised my hand. I just kinda went with the program

To be fair, it was a beautifully run event in terms of efficiency, the politeness and well-behaved nature of the audience, the sticking to times, and the focus. Any political discussion would have been, in this setting, a disruption. Yet disruption is necessary at times. That is what writers are supposed to do, isn’t it? To disrupt? To speak the disruptive truth? To hurl insults from the balcony at power?

It was surprising that no one stood up and gave a speech or hurled insults, or cried or shouted.  Isn’t this crazy San Francisco? Maybe the $100 price tag kept out all but the most determined, commercially minded, career-oriented young fiction writers and poets? Anyway, I felt out of place in the  well-behaved crowd. Of course, if one feels generally out of place anyway, that’s part of it. But here is my beef:

I believe at gatherings of writers that some mention ought always be made of the larger global political context in which we work. Is this an outdated expectation? Perhaps the Poets and Writers staff discussed whether to mention the slaughter of 12 cartoonists in a Paris office building less than a week ago and decided to avoid getting sidetracked? It’s possible. This is not a reported piece so I haven’t asked them. Anyway I sat through the three morning panels,  skipped the first two after-lunch panels and returned for the last panel with Joyce Carol Oates, which involved Oates reading a poem that has been published in the New Yorker, musician Ben Arthur playing and singing an “answer” to that same poem, then a film using the poem as a leaping off point and then a dance performance, or maybe the other way around.

I had stopped listening and was scribbling away in my notebook, defensively.  That was interesting: That my creating is sometimes a defensive move, a way to reclaim creative space in response to the creations of others. Like I did as a kid!

Also had major realization about songwriting: need to jump in passionately again. So it was useful in that way. As to taste, I guess I just didn’t get it.

What’s not just a question of personal taste is this:

What customary obligation obtains for prestigious publications for writers to make space for vital political matters?

Is it not heartening at gatherings of poets to hear at least a token acknowledgement of world events that affect us? Does it not reaffirm a crucial truth? I think it a custom worth upholding. It says, to the uninitiated, that those of us who write recognize our global role, our responsibility to speak on behalf of others. And it reminds those of us involved in the daily practice that we are indeed doing it in a larger context.

As I was walking to the cafe this morning thinking about this, and the possible reasons no mention was made of the Paris murders, which are so in my mind and in the minds of commentators, I thought of the years that financial difficulties brought me to work for  one of the world’s largest oil companies. One of the things that shocked me, and left me feeling I’d been naive, was the unspoken assumption that what went on inside that building had no connection to what went on in the streets outside. When protests occurred outside the building directly targeting the company’s practices, it seemed that we ought to acknowledge and discuss the matter, and that the company ought to make some kind of explicit statement of its position. Instead there was silence. The message was that we completely ignore the world outside.

This is the corporate way. In the interest of efficient running, the keeping of timetables, corporate workers ignore “outside matters” and stick to what is functional: getting it done on time, sticking to the schedule. It allows corporations to ignore crucial issues and I think it’s a bad way to run a company.

I expected that a gathering of avowedly creative people would be different, more chaotic, more charged with energy. By the end I felt like a squirming teenager, eager to get out into the fresh air, wanting to shout, to rock and roll, to drive fast, to shout insults at those who had held me captive and whose placidity seemed to gain them the rewards we all wanted: the acclaim, the position, the security and acceptance.

It was an interesting moment. Then it ended. I went downstairs, ate one cheddar cheese square in the lobby “mixer,” I gathered up the remainder of my printed marketing materials, and fled into the fresh night air of 24th Street for a quesadilla suiza at El Farolito.

I Tweeted a little bit about this this morning. Maybe there is a conversation to be had about this.

For I am in a position full of contradiction. As I rail against the institutions I am at the same time courting them. I am diligently attempting to master the art of applying for fellowships and grants, submitting my work to journals and contests, writing queries and pitches.

That is why, actually, I so appreciated Kay Ryan’s quip about not being a joiner and assiduously avoiding such events as the one for which she was presently delivering the keynote. “Even a writer who doesn’t come to these things and loathes the whole enterprise still wants to know that they exist — that there is still a community to disdain.”

We all laughed. But no one said anything more about the contradiction, about our own, personal disdain for the messy and irritating job of self-promotion. It all went on in the background, all these ideas — how the democracy and freedom that allow us this privilege are being eroded, how the bookstores that were our lifeblood of community are threatened by economic change, etc.

And what was I there for in the end? Talk about contradictions. The $100 I spent to attend the Poets and Writers Live event was a business marketing expense. Leaving cards and fliers all up and down 24th Street was a marketing activity.

Although, to be fair to myself: I also attended as a matter of conscience and identity, as a writer of fiction and poetry interested in having my work read more widely.

It’s just a shame there was no  Jack Hirschman ranting in the lobby.

Does anyone else feel as I did — that there are some matters of soul, of conscience, that are present always and always ought to be voiced?


I don't mind! Why would I mind? It's fine! Everything's fine! Reject me! Go ahead and reject me! There's always tomorrow! The future is bright! Don't give it another thought. Just go about your day like nothing happened. I'm OK. Really. I'm fine! It's a miracle!

My screed for the Poets & Writers Live event

I felt so strongly about reaching out to San Francisco writers at the Poets & Writers Live event, such a strong sense of localness that I found myself staying up late the night before writing this long screed, pouring out my heart in the matter of what it’s like to be in San Francisco today, having moved from the Mission to the Outer Sunset, having seen move its operations to New York, having seen the streets and the restaurants change. I printed out a bunch of copies and left them in the lobby of the Brava Theater, which I, being a longtime guy, cannot help recalling as the York Theater.

You can also find it as a pdf here. A Note to Fellow San Francisco Locals.

A Note to Fellow San Francisco Locals

(Subtitled: Really Just How Far Out is the Outer Sunset Anyway and Why Would Anybody Go Out There Except to Take Their Parents to the Cliff House Which Technically Speaking is Actually the Outer Richmond or Sutro Heights anyway?)

Dear Fellow San Francisco locals attending this Poets & Writers event,

My name is Cary Tennis and I came to San Francisco on a Gray Rabbit Bus from Florida via Manhattan in 1976 for the same reasons thousands of others came during those years – for the cultural and personal freedom unavailable elsewhere and to be around writers and musicians. I went to grad school in creative writing at San Francisco State. I ended up on the staff of the SF Weekly in the 1980s and wrote for the Examiner, Focus, San Francisco magazine, East Bay Express, Berkeley Monthly, Frisco and the Bay Guardian. I formed a band here called the Repeat Offenders and we played our first gig at the Hotel Utah. I drank here and got sober here. I read Herb Caen. I lived through the Loma Prieta quake and the East Bay Hills fire. I’ve been up and down and over and out and I know one thing: This is my town.

I came here with no money. I am one of those people who came here when a person could just come here. There was a nice lady at the Greyhound station at 7th and Market from Traveler’s Aid right when we pulled into town. Imagine that: A welcome wagon for hippies on a hippie bus. The Grateful Dead’s electrician who lived downstairs from us at 1492 Fulton showed us how to apply for General Assistance. We got jobs as bike messengers. Scholars on bikes. We learned the streets.

If you live here too and feel this magical city changing, we are probably here at this P&W event for some of the same reasons, and I would be happy to talk about it but I believe, as perhaps you do, that it’s not as simple as stopping the Google buses. And also I have a suggestion: If you are wondering what happened to the city you thought you lived in, get on the 71 bus downtown and ride it to the end of the line at 48th and Ortega and you will see a city you may have forgotten about. Plus, my house is right down the street at 1966 48th. I do writing workshops there. It’s quiet out there and the ocean air is fresh and the waves are big in winter.

The writing workshops I do are not for everybody. If you are a working writer with a solid practice and are happy with your routine and have easy access to your deepest emotional and psychic resources it might just seem silly. Writers used to work alone. I used to work alone. I worked alone for 30 years, or 40 years if you count the decade during which I was becoming a writer. But writing as a solitary pursuit can break you down, too. It broke me down. I finally sought support and community through Pat Schneider’s Amherst Writers and Artists method. I needed something warm and welcoming. That’s what the AWA method is. It’s not for everybody but it works for me and thousands of others.

But the thing is, I am also demanding and precise and volatile and impatient, schooled in daily and weekly journalism to get to the point and to get pieces drafted, edited and published, and though I sought refuge in the AWA method from the demons of ambition and fear and grandiosity, it didn’t cure me of those things, nor was it supposed to. I am still ambitious and grandiose and impatient.

So I started a second thing of my own creation called Finishing School, which is all about getting it done. Not about being cool or brilliant or accomplished but just about getting it done before it’s too late.

Time goes fast. That’s one reason to seek help getting written the things you feel you must get written. We lived right in this neighborhood before we moved to the Outer Sunset. Our move was dictated by gunfire. A bullet came through our window. We witnessed a shooting on 24th Street, on this very block, actually, back when Brava Theater was the York Theater and showed movies and you could smoke in the balcony. People were running down the street screaming and bullets were flying and my wife Norma said enough. We moved in 1993. We bought a house out there in 1997 when it became clear that no leftwing coalition was going to protect us from the economically motivated decisions of landlords and if we wanted to stay in the city we loved we were going to have to own something.

So, loving this town as I do, and feeling sad and afraid about how it is changing, I just wanted to reach out and say, wherever you live — in the Mission, in Cole Valley, the Haight or the Lower Haight, or the Fillmore, or South of Market, Inner Sunset, Downtown, Tenderloin, North Beach, Russian Hill, Pacific Heights, Dogtown, Bernal Heights, Potrero Hill, Glen Park or wherever – I invite you to come out to the Outer Sunset.

Take Muni. Or drive. There’s easy parking. You can park maybe not right in front of our house but on our street, or definitely on Lower Great Highway. Come early before the workshop and go to Trouble Coffee on Judah and 46th and have one of the best espressos ever, plus dig the very hip clientele and baristas. Eat at Outerlands. Amazing food. The owners Dave and Lana are sweet brilliant people, as is Julietta from Trouble Coffee. (We don’t have kids or tattoos or we’d also be into Small Talkers and that tattoo place.)

The house we bought in 1997 is pretty big, not huge but bigger than some of those little Bernal Heights houses, and plus we tore down some walls so the house itself is open and homey, a welcoming space for Saturday afternoon writing workshops. My wife, Norma, is an exacting and inspired cook, and she bakes amazing things, and we have cheeses and other nice things to eat. Plus we have not only the greatest drip coffee machine (Mocamaster) but also the amazing Nespresso. And I make green tea — gen mai cha, the kind with little roasted rice grains.

Pack a book and take the 71. Ride it to the end. It takes you half a block from our house. Or drive.

I do writing workshops out there.

Like I say, it’s not for everybody, but it might be for you.

Cary Tennis. Writing Workshops out at Ocean Beach
1966 48th Avenue (Pacheco/Ortega) SF CA 94116 415-308-5685






Writing the column has been a spiritual practice

I do realize now that writing the column has been an aesthetic and spiritual practice. But a spiritual practice must be supported. It was kept in balance by the salary. When we adopt certain practices if they are not supported they lead us to imbalance. That is what I am struggling with now. If I continue to spend four to six hours a day doing this aesthetic and spiritual practice, my life will be out of balance.

Yet  do not wish to abandon it. So I do it sporadically.

In the meantime, I make these notes, so you know I am still here, thinking these words, thinking in this way.

I suppose this is why monks and religious folk have gone to live together and support each other, because to live in this way, giving oneself over wholly to some practice which takes everything one has, one must simplify. One must depart from the world, in a sense. Because there is too much to do.


I love you

I love you, O person who is unknown to me. That is what I send to you. I send my love. This is a rare thing to be able to do. I am not being paid for this but still I am sending my love.

When I was being paid, in the many times in my life where what I was writing was a product purchased by a company, such as all writing is when we are paid for it, I still saw my job as one of sending love out through the words. I wanted to do it in a funny and clever way but it was still an act of sending love out in words. I was still trying to cause delight in the mind. I was trying to give you the best of what I can do.

I know I have a gift. At times I have let this go to my head. At other times I have debased myself because of this gift, feeling I had to lower myself and not display this gift. I have my neuroses, my demons and wounds. But I also have this gift. I see and hear things.

What is next? I’m not sure. Oh yes, I remember now: Writing the column is a spiritual practice.


I can still speak directly to you

The advice column has a quality to it that is of a person speaking directly to another person. That quality flows out of the form of it, that it is epistolary in form.

What I can do, even if I am not writing the column is I can still speak directly to you.

What I can do is to speak directly to you, the person who is seeing this. I may not be able to untangle entire lives in the time I have to write. But I can speak to you directly in this way.

This is a literary style. It can be defined by sentence type and word choice. And sound. It has a particular sound, this style of mine, how I write. It is also an intent, embodied in a literary style. The intent is to implore you to slow down and participate with me in a kind of breathing. That is, the slowness of these words is meant to say to you, slow down and breathe with me. Perhaps I am even trying to hypnotize you. I am saying slow down and read these words along with me. Slow down and contemplate our collective powerlessness, out of which grows great strength. I am saying, recognize with me that in this moment as I am writing I am picturing you reading we are together. There are no other worries. In this moment that you are able to read this, you are safe and protected. You are breathing. This won’t last forever. I will pass on and you will pass on and one day there won’t even be a trace of us here on this planet. We don’t know where we will be then. For some reason we are prevented from knowing this. Yet for right now if you are reading this everything is OK. Nothing is going on except that I am sitting in my room in the noise of the heater, with my cups and my crumpled napkins, my plate and my cellphone, my nails that need clipping and my keys and glasses case, my lamp, my stack of mail, and I am only doing this one thing.

I can think about that stack of mail and I can even feel the tension it causes when I think of it, but even that is somewhat under my control because I can return to this simple act of writing to you.

Next: I love you.


The serious writer’s predicament

What a radically dangerous pledge it is, to pledge oneself to writing. You must be willing to let everything else slide.  (Or must you?)

If I decide that today I am answering a letter from a person who is suffering, that might be all I do today. If I put limits on it, if I say that because I am not being paid then I can only spend one hour on it, that may cheapen it. What I need to say may require six hours, not one.

What I do in the column is the opposite of a bullet-point list. It is a song. I enter into the spirit of an individual’s life. I try to touch people. I try to move heaven and earth with my prose.

Next: I can still speak directly to you.


If I had enough faith, would I just keep doing it regardless?

At times I feel that if I am a person of great faith and serenity I can simply continue what I was doing and everything will fall into place. Because I practice the 12 steps and am deeply connected to a community of faith and recovery I am sometimes in that state of mind where everything will be fine. But also I am in that place where I am not the only person living in this house. If the house crumbles around me and the bills aren’t paid, it doesn’t just affect me.

I do not know exactly what will happen. That is what vexes my spirit: Not knowing the future.

Is that not crazy? Who among us knows the future? Who among us can control what will happen tomorrow? And yet I fret. Why? Because having a salary creates the illusion of a certain future.

The future is an illusion. Still …

I know, when I meditate, and when I am connected to my 12-step community, that certainty in a future is an illusion. I know from my own experience that a tumor can be found in the body and that will mean a new path. A tumor can be found and that will change everything. Or money can fall from the sky. Or an anvil can fall from the sky. Or a piano, as in a cartoon. When writing the column I am deeply in that world. When writing the column I am for a while in the world of meditation. That is what I transmit; I inhabit this world of things as they are.

When a monk inhabits the world of things as they are the monk may do nothing for weeks at a time. In our world, in San Francisco, as a homeowner and a credit card user and a purchaser of PG&E gas and electric and garbage services and a buyer of gasoline and soap and food and clothes, I cannot just sit; I am in relationship with the suppliers of all these things. I am in trade. And as a business person, I am in all kinds of reciprocal agreements and relationships with people. I cannot just be a monk.

So again we are talking about the place of the writer in the world.

Next: The serious writer’s predicament