Dearest Long Losts,

I hope everyone is in one piece, the holidays in the rear view. I’ve missed you!  I made one resolution even though it’s probably too difficult to accomplish, especially for me. I decided to stop hating with the caveat that I could still hate in my mind, I just won’t give voice to it. The idea being that if I don’t talk about the object of my hatred, it will dissipate. As a result, I don’t know what to blog about: unicorns, rainbows, marinated grilled chicken? Will my head explode if I keep this up? Will I turn into someone I like, and then what? Can a tiger change her spots?

What did you resolve?

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I want to wish everyone a happy and healthy new year, though we are a magnificent group of unhappy, fucked up writers here. If the shoe fits, if the bee bites, if the netflix series you’re bingeing on is all out of episodes. If everything you write is a sestina about betrayal, if the novel you finished didn’t start, the screenplay you wrote for Julie Christie wound up in the hands of Heather Graham, if everything you didn’t believe in came true, if you found love lacking, the future past, if every time you open your mouth to sing a butterfly dies in the Pacific Northwest — what will you have, how will you live, when will you find the words to say it?

I love you all. Be safe. Write well. Love too much.

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A lot of people ask me what I’m working on now, or if I’m writing. It’s an innocent question. Some people even say that they hope I’m working on something new. Most writers might take this as a compliment, and yet it calls up something in me that is not pretty. First, I suppress the desire to say, the fuck if I know. Or what the fuck do you care? Or are you fucking with me? Then I turn the tables: What the fuck are you working on? What is it any of your business? Why are you on planet earth? You don’t look good in plaid, and can you please fuck off and die.

What the fuck are you working on?

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On the way to work today: a black suede high heel boot folded over in the street, a pug in a shearling coat, a tiny girl in white, a pyramid of golden apples, a man sleeping on a handicap ramp, a hipster in a tight brown suit, a swarm of Citibikes, a father walking his son to school, holding his lunch box, a couple steps ahead.

Tell me about your morning.

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When you write about a room, what are the details that make their presence known? A white bowl with gold fish painted on the inside, a gray radiator, New Yorkers from the year one. Nesting tables missing one nest. Do you see them or make them up? To they enhance the story, magnify the themes or characters. A water bottle, a yoga mat, a dictionary stand, the Game of Life. Do you choose the details or do they choose you. That’s a trick question. You choose. Striped curtains of gold and red that fall to the floor and then some.

Is god in the details.

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Write what you know. Do what you like. Try to be a good person. Hold the door open for the person behind you, even if he isn’t there. Make crust. Hem your pants. Floss. Kick ass. Write thank you notes. Drink eight glasses a day. Hands at ten and two. What you were, who you are,  the perfect child.  Can you write what you don’t  know? Can you know yourself through writing?

What do you know?

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When I was in junior high school everyone loved this history teacher, let’s call him Mr. Mustache. He was hip, he was funny, he perched himself on the edge of a desk and spoke “frankly.” He was the most popular teacher in the school. I hated him, thought he was a phony, his lines predictable and folksy. Then everyone fell in love with the movie, E.T. Not for me. So fucking saccharine.
You can disagree with me. My whole life, I’ve had this perverse streak of hating everything everyone loves. With the exception of Broadway, the Thanksgiving Parade, and a nice bowl of primo weed.

What do you hate that everyone loves?

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It’s the end of year and that can only mean one thing: best of lists. The New York Times released its top ten books of the year and one hundred best books. I can’t believe my fucking Bridge Ladies didn’t make it. Or was it published last year.? Who can fucking remember. I never wanted to be on a best books list anyway. Give me an Oscar or give me nothing. And you shall have it in abundance!

What’s on your top worst list besides Dunkirk, Starbucks low fat bacon sandwich and Larry David’s return especially the episode with Salmon Rushdie,

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Two first-time authors in the last few months asked my advice about what to sign in people’s books at their readings. For The Forest for the Trees, I wrote: Keep Writing! For Food and Loathing, I wrote: Love and Doughnuts. And for The Bridge Ladies, I’d sometimes write: Don’t forget to pull trump. Or I’d write: Learn Bridge.  Or: Are You My Mother. Or: Get My Daughter Drugs! Or: Fuck me dead.

What do you sign?

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What would it be like to paint or sit in an orchestra pit? Or Bruno Mars moving like silk. What would it be like to audition, stare into the face of a director and casting agent in a darkened theater. You are a monologue, a pair of tap shoes, the horse hair on Cezanne’s brush. You discovered the filament, the fiber, the fringe on a red velvet curtain, burnished and dusty, ropes of gold. You have no idea what your body beholds. You can’t remember your name. You cannot sculpt, or sing, or make anyone laugh.

What do you wish?

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