The ice cold sneezers who once had brought me to my knees were warbling outside. A gust ripped my coat, and its chill had a way of sticking to the ribs. A gull glided by with a big red berry in his beak. He was smiling. Of course he was. That was the best moment of his life.
There’s a corner three blocks down and it’s the nicest corner I’ve ever seen but it’s not enough. The spare booze store, the Subway, the exclusive club that utilizes red velvet ropes. Mortar and plaster and stardust and gold. All that is here. But it’s not enough.
I am not a prolific writer except on these pages which barely matter. I know this. I should be as prolific a writer as can be because it is what I was supposed to do. I know this, too. I also know that writing should not be done as means to an end, and that the reason it is so difficult is because it is work. It is work, work to spin through every ounce of sense memory and bit of knowledge and experience you have and to, as Gene Fowler said, to “stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.”
Last night, I got 2.5 good pages out. Took me about an hour. Maybe less. That isn’t easy. But it’s good. It’s a start.