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Charles Deemer MFA, Playwriting, University of Oregon Writing faculty,
Portland State University (part-time) Retired playwright and screenwriter.
Active novelist, librettist and teacher.
cdeemer@yahoo.com.
Links:
Literary archive
Personal home page
Photo
Electronic screenwriting tutorial
Online writing classes
References
Bookstore
Highlights:
Dress Rehearsals
A memoir
Love At Ground Zero
Seven Plays
Oregon Book Award finalist
Blogs by (mostly) creative writers:
"Can We Talk About Me For A Change?"
Playwright Debra Neff Nathans
Inkygirl
Debbie Ridpath Ohi, a weblog for writers (resources)
Silliman's Blog
Ron Silliman, contemporary poetry and poetics
Maud Newton
literary links, amusements, politics, rants
Darren Barefoot
Technical and creative writing, theatre, Dublin
Rob's Writing Pains
Journey of a struggling writer.
Mad, Mad World
Cara Swann, fiction writer, journalist, "reflections on humanity, random news & my life."
Writeright
Random musings on a writer's life and times.
Flaskaland
Barbara Flaska's compilation of the best online articles about music and culture.
Write Of Way
Samantha Blackmon's written musings on writing (composition and rhetoric).
Alexander b. Craghead: blog
Writing, photography, and watercolors.
Rodney's Painted Pen
Rodney Bohen's daily commentary "on the wondrous two legged beast we fondly refer to as mankind."
His pen runneth over.
Frustrated Writer
This one named Nicole.
scribble, scribble, scribble
Journalist Dale Keiger teaches nonfiction scribbling to undergraduate and graduate students at Johns Hopkins University.
The Unofficial Dave Barry Blog
The very one.
The Hive
The official blog of science fiction / horror author Terence West.
William Gibson Blog
Famed author of Neuromancer and Johnny Mnemonic: The Screenplay.
The Word Foundry
Joe Clifford Faust's "blog of a working writer: tracking writing projects, musings on the
creative process, occasional side trips into music, media, politics, religion, etc."
A Writer's Diary
By Cynthia Harrison, who has the good sense to quote Virginia Woolf: "The truth is that writing
is the profound pleasure and being read the superficial."
Bow. James Bow.
The journal of James Bow and his writing.
Ravenlike
Michael Montoure's weblog about writing, primarily horror and speculative fiction.
Globemix
By David Henry, "a poet's weblog from Aberdeen, Scotland."
Modem Noise
By Adrian Bedford, a "fledgling Pro SF Writer, living in Perth, Australia."
boynton
"A wry writerly blog named in honour of a minor character in a minor Shirley Temple film."
Real Writers Bounce
Holly Lisle's blog, "a novelist's roadmap through the art and ordeal of finding the damned words."
2020 Hindsight
By Susan.
downWrite creative
Phil Houtz's notes on the writing life.
Vivid: pieces from a writer's notebook
Blog of Canadian poet Erin Noteboom.
The Literary Saloon
The literary weblog at the complete review.
Rabbit Blog
The rabbit writes on popular culture.
This Girl's Calendar
Momoka writes short stories.
Twists & Turns
Musings by writer Michael Gates.
Plays and Musicals -- A Writer's Introspective
A blog by John D. Nugent - Composer, Playwright, and Artistic Director of the Johnson City Independent Theatre Company
The American Sentimentalist
"Never has any people endured its own tragedy with so little sense of the tragic." Essays by Mark W. Anderson.
Screenwriting By Blog
David C. Daniel writes a screenplay online. "I've decided to publish the process as a way to push myself through it.
From concept to completion, it'll be here."
SeanAlonzo.com
Official site of occult fiction author Sean-Alonzo, exploring symbolism, alternative
history, philosophy, secret
societies and other areas of the esoteric tradition.
Crafty Screenwriting
Maunderings of Alex Epstein, tv scribe, about life, politics, and the tv show I'm co-creating.
Letters From The Home Front
The life of a writer, 21, home schooled, rural living.
Venal Scene
The blog of bite-sized plays inspired by the news (by Dan Trujillo).
'Plaint of the Playwright
Rob Matsushita, a playwright from Wisconsin, "whines a lot."
I Pity Da Fool!
Glenn's adventures in screenwriting.
Time In Tel-Aviv
Hebrew modern literature at its best, by Corinna Hasofferett.
Big Window
Robin Reagler's poetry blog.
John Baker's Blog
Author of the Sam Turner and Stone Lewis novels.
Suggest a writer's blog
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The Writing Life...
"And it came to pass that all the stars in the firmament had ceased to shine. But how was anyone to know?"
The Half-Life Conspiracy
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Sunday, August 31, 2003
Labor Day
How about a labor play for Labor Day? Here are two of mine:
8/31/2003 09:45:53 PM |
Rhythm
I'm in a really good rhythm since returning from camping. Have a month before my classes start at the university, which gives me a good shot to finish the present draft of the novel --- and I may only be one rewrite away after that. In the meantime, I have all my books piled up for the next project. I found two obscure journals of the period, one by a man and a more rare one by a woman, and these will be the basis of my treatment, I believe. Indeed I am thinking of making my protagonist a nephew of the male. He was injured in a fire early in the time period at hand, and I may invent the nephew to come and care for him, which will get him on the scene nicely.
So all is very well. Now if the Mariners can get to the World Series ... onward.
8/31/2003 09:42:31 PM |
Love in the Ruins -- Chapter 4
Wes ended up watching the continuing nightmare on television. For blocks he trotted along with an anonymous mob, heading north in the direction of NYU, occasionally turning to see the twin towers engulfed in flames and smoke, the sight as confusing and surrealistic as it was frightening, because accidents this extraordinary did not happen in pairs, which meant that clearly New York had been attacked – but by whom and for what reason? The innocent are always shocked to learn that they have enemies.
Finally Wes stopped running and bent forward to catch his breath. Straightening up, he saw the neon sign of a bar and decided a drink was exactly what he needed.
Everyone along the bar was staring up at a television set. Many were talking at once and again, as he had outside the tower after the first explosion, Wes pieced together a semblance of coherence from the snippets of what he overheard. The Pentagon also had been attacked, America apparently coming under attack in many places at once. There was an unconfirmed story of a fourth plane, perhaps on route to the White House, which apparently had crashed in a field short of its target. This was like Pearl Harbor, more than one angry patron announced to no one and everyone. Staring up at the television’s replay after replay of the jetliner crashing into the south tower, Wes felt numb. Suicide bombers had come to America.
After a beer, Wes found a pay phone near the restroom and called home. His mother answered, and as soon as she recognized his voice she started crying, sounding so relieved that he stammered when assuring her that although Mike wasn’t with him, surely he was all right, which Wes believed less strongly than he could bear to admit, even to himself. He felt certain that Mike was located considerably higher than the plane’s point of contact, and under such circumstances it probably was safer to be higher than lower. All the same, it might be some time before anyone could get up to rescue people on the higher floors.
Soon enough Mike’s survival became a moot point. Shortly after ten the south tower collapsed on live television, imploding upon itself with devastation beyond comprehension, a slow crumbling descent that looked almost to be in slow motion, kicking up a cloud of thick dust and debris as horrific as a nuclear explosion, yet also obscenely sensual in the slow rise and pulsation of its contours. Somewhere in the great growing heap of rubble was his brother, and Wes understood that no one could survive the tragedy on the screen, and the higher your fall, the more certain your death. He felt sick in his stomach.
By the time the north tower collapsed, Wes was running again, north again, to get away from the threatening advance of smoke and dust that approached from the direction of the collapsed towers. Dust would hang in the air for days, as if one needed reminding of what had happened. Wes finally hailed down a cab and returned home, to the family house in Glen Cove on Long Island, expense be damned, even though Wes was living at home to save money so he could devote his time to the graduate creative writing program without taking a part-time job.
As soon as Wes entered the house, Evelyn, his mother, ran forward to embrace him, almost knocking him down. Where was Mike? Wes didn’t even have to answer the question. She saw the truth in his expression, and Walter, his father, barely reached her before Evelyn collapsed in grief.
8/31/2003 06:56:25 AM |
Saturday, August 30, 2003
Love in the Ruins -- Chapter 3
Wes bought coffee at a stand, got a newspaper from a vending machine, and sat down at a table in an indoor courtyard off the lobby, figuring Mike could find him easily enough. He started reading the paper.
Suddenly there was a noise unlike anything Wes had heard before, not quite an explosion, not quite a crash, but clearly something of magnitude, strong enough to jar the foundation of the building as if some great force were sliding the floor out from under him. And then, just as suddenly, stillness, at least in the building’s foundation. But the air was heavy with menace, like a distant, humid echo of catastrophe.
Already people were racing to the windows and running outside to see what had happened. Wes watched the commotion with a forced calm, staying at the table.
Across the way a man yelled, “The north tower’s on fire!”
The news drew even more people to the windows and exits. Wes stood up, leaving the paper on the table but taking his coffee. He headed for the nearest exit, which faced north, trying not to join the growing panic. He mistrusted panic because it depended on first impressions.
Outside Wes couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, the north tower in flames several dozen stories up, spitting out great billows of dark smoke. Even harder to believe was what he could decipher from an anxious crowd of observers, many of whom were talking and yelling at once, as if trying to articulate their own disbelief. Apparently an airplane, a jetliner, had crashed into the north tower, an accident of colossal proportions.
High in the south tower above him, Mike would have quite a view of the situation. Wes decided to join him.
He made his way back inside, weaving through the crowd still coming out of the building. In the chaos, the security guard had abandoned his check point, and Wes was able to enter without flashing identification. He found the building directory.
Mike had told him the name of the law firm where Jimmy worked. Wes scanned the directory, looking for a name that rang a bell.
On a loud speaker, a man was telling everyone not to panic, that the problem was in the north tower, not here, and that everyone should return to work. Few paid attention and a great flow of people continued to move outside.
Jacobs & Smith! That was the firm. The 88th floor. Wes headed for the elevators.
The first to arrive was packed with people coming down to get out of the building, still ignoring the advice to go back to work. When the last woman stepped out, Wes entered the elevator. Only several others joined him.
There were no stops until the sixth floor. The door opened. Just as a woman was about to step in, a horrendous explosion rocked the elevator, knocking Wes and everyone else off their feet, the woman landing on top of him. He quickly maneuvered free and struggled to his feet, then helped the woman to hers. Someone yelled that they must get off the elevator, but Wes was a step ahead of the advice, wandering into the hallway. What the hell had happened?
The hallways were filled with stunned employees, everyone in shock, moving en masse toward the stairs, and Wes stepped along with the flow. Where had the explosion come from? Certainly from above, somewhere high in the building, somewhere closer to where Mike was.
Wes could hear screams coming from throughout the building. As he moved with the crowd to the stairwell of the fifth floor, one scream in particular caught his attention, a woman with a British accent, calling desperately for help from somewhere close. Wes moved into the hallway and found her only a few doorways down, a young woman in a gray robe, the style of dress worn by Arabs, who was kneeling over another Arab woman, whose robe was purple and orange.
“Someone help me!” the young woman cried.
Wes raced down the hallway.
“She can’t walk,” Areeba told him. “She twisted her ankle.”
Wes reached down to the young woman on the floor.
“Take my hand.”
Hayaam grasped the hand, and Wes pulled her to her feet. Hayaam grimaced in pain.
“I don’t think I can walk,” she told him, also with a British accent.
“Okay, here we go,” said Wes.
He bent forward and lifted her up into his arms.
“You okay?”
Hayaam said, “Yes.”
“This way.”
Wes carried her back to the stairwell, where he joined the crowd that continued downstairs. Areeba took his arm and followed.
Something had changed. The air was now filled with dust and a pungent odor, strong and unpleasant, reminding Wes of the smell of burning oil. If his hands had been free, he would have held a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, but he was carrying the young woman in his arms, who was surprisingly light.
They continued downstairs with the flow, everyone staying calm, as if this collective routine was enough to put a temporary halt to fear and anxiety. But when they reached the ground floor, spilling out into the lobby, the crowd exploded into its panicked parts, with individuals suddenly racing for the exits and crying out in unintelligible anguish, the crowd becoming a mob.
Wes carried the young woman outside and moved far enough from the building so the crowd scattered a safe distance around them. He set her carefully on her feet.
“I have to go back inside,” he said. “Will you be okay?”
“Yes,” said Hayaam. “Thank you so much.”
“No problem.”
Hayaam recognized the same after-shave on the man as the earlier man was wearing, the one who had spoken to them. She offered her hand, the American gesture of gratitude.
“I am Hayaam. This is my cousin, Areeba.”
He took her hand.
“I’m Wes.”
There was a silence. When Wes realized he was still holding her hand, he released it.
“I have to go. I’m looking for someone.”
“Thank you for saving me.”
This had not occurred to him, and Wes had no time to reflect on the matter. His plan was to return inside the building and somehow find Mike, but when he looked up, as if expecting to find his brother staring down at him from some window high in the tower, Wes saw a horror of flames and dark smoke, and he realized that whatever catastrophe had happened in the north tower had occurred in the southern twin as well, creating a chaotic evacuation of the building which made it impossible to return inside. Wes had no choice but to leave Mike to his fate, and to look out for himself and join the escaping frenzy of frightened people running randomly across the plaza, racing to go anywhere but here, racing to get as far from the towers, this center of western civilization, as possible.
8/30/2003 06:28:15 AM |
Rewriting
I'm in the part of the writing process with Love in the Ruins that I enjoy the most, working on the first "presentable" draft (the 3rd or 4th draft, in fact), the first draft I am willing to share. This novel began as a screenplay, deliberately, as a kind of experiment, following a methodology introduced to me by a former student. The advantage of this is that the first attention is given to dramatic structure, to the story. This set down, I then can concentrate on all the "pretty sentences" which now, by virtue of being embedded in story from the beginning, will go somewhere. This methodology has been working so well I'll do it again. I think it only works with short, focused novels -- or perhaps a larger book would require several screenplays with which to set down the story foundation. At any rate, this is the joy of writing, filling a page with red ink. I have to do this by hand (I do the earlier rewrites, and the later rewrites, right at the computer) because filling the page with red ink becomes part of the visceral pleasure of the process. What fun! Onward.
8/30/2003 06:16:21 AM |
Friday, August 29, 2003
Where's the story?
In a book review in the Philadelphia Inquirer, Marta Salij complains about a book this way: "Pretty sentences, all dressed up with nowhere to go. That's what I think is ailing fiction, has been ailing fiction for some time. I get no points for noticing. Better minds than mine have complained." (Read the review).
The loss of story is what this complaint amounts to. The loss of conflict and dramatic structure. I've started reading a lot of books like this myself -- and never finish them. I don't care what happens next.
The title of my new screenwriting book is What Happens Next? I think it is the central, driving question for a storyteller.
8/29/2003 05:38:02 PM |
Love in the Ruins -- Chapter 2
America was still capable of surprising her. Waiting for an elevator, Hayaam marveled at the American capacity to ignore miracles. What else was the extraordinary building in which she stood with Areeba, waiting for an elevator, this 110-story tower of the World Trade Center, but a miracle of engineering? The first time she saw it, two years ago when everything in America was still new to her, her eyes had been wide with marvel, much as Areeba was looking around now, but this had been on a Saturday when the tower and its twin across the way were filled inside and out with tourists like herself. Today was a Tuesday, a workday, and what impressed Hayaam most was not the miracle of engineering but how easily it was ignored by those who worked here, whether American or not (and clearly the tower was host to businesses from all around the world because already she had seen many races and national styles of dress in the building, including those from her homeland, Indonesia.). Hayaam, wearing a traditional hijab, the long flowing dress purple, the head scarf orange, felt no one staring at her in such an international environment, the way students sometimes stared at her when she walked across campus at NYU.
Areeba also wore a hijab, which was gray and drab in contrast to Hayaam’s bright presence. She couldn’t keep her eyes still, taking in the wonder of the building.
“Quite a place, isn’t it?” Mike said. He smiled first at Areeba, then at Hayaam.
A bell rang, and the elevator door opened. Hayaam and Areeba waited their turn and entered. There was room for the man who had spoken to enter behind them.
Hayaam punched the button for the fifth floor, which was where the Employment Agency was located. She’d been studying to become an American citizen, though she’d told neither her brother nor written her father about this, and she was seeking a part-time job to reinforce her growing independence. Her father, she realized, might stop supporting her once he learned of her intentions.
As the elevator began to rise, Hayaam noticed the after-shave of the man standing in front of her, the man who had spoken to them. She found the aroma pleasant. She assumed the man was an American by the forwardness of his question, and she also guessed that he was there on business, like themselves, rather than an employee somewhere in the building because he was not wearing a tie.
The elevator made its first stop at the third floor, and a few people got off. At the fifth floor Hayaam said, “Excuse me,” and the man with the after-shave shuffled to the side so they could move past him.
Before the elevator door closed behind them, the man who had spoken spoke again.
“Have a nice day,” Mike said with a smile.
As they walked on, Areeba turned to Hayaam and grinned, the reaction of an embarrassed schoolgirl, as if the man had been flirting with them, which was probably true. Hayaam smiled back.
It would not turn out to be a nice day at all.
8/29/2003 06:58:37 AM |
Thursday, August 28, 2003
Love in the Ruins
I'm working on the first presentable draft of my short novel, Love in the Ruins and am going to serialize it here. It's written in short (2-5 page) chapters, and is the tragic love story between two NYU students in the aftermath of 9/11, an American and a Muslim from Indonesia.
Chapter 1
Before the New York sun had climbed to noon, by which time television stations around the world were repeating, like a film loop in a pornographic peep show, images of unthinkable catastrophe; before TV anchors found their gravest tones of voice with which to christen the shocking events “a day of infamy,” no less historic and horrific than December 7th or November 22nd, days etched permanently into memory by all who experienced them; before America’s violent baptism under a clear blue sky of a late summer morning; it was, after all, just an ordinary day beginning in an ordinary way.
Commuters by the tens of thousands streamed into the city by train and subway, by bus and car, by bicycle and on foot, rushing forward in a relentless march to another work day, with computers to boot, phone calls to make, meetings to attend, deals to close, new deals to initiate. Deals were lurking everywhere (“the business of America is business”) in this city that considered itself the financial center of the world and therefore the center of western civilization, New York, stretching awake with no suspicion of how much political innocence could be lost so quickly, oblivious to its vulnerability, oblivious to the march of history. September 11, 2001, was just another day as a great city scurried to life, a day like yesterday and presumably a day like tomorrow. Not an American hurrying to work could have guessed what was about to happen.
Wes, moving along in the flow of this commercial throng, felt apart from it. He was a student, after all, not an employee – and a creative writing student at that, which made him an observer more than a participant. He seldom ventured this far south of the NYU campus but this morning was a special occasion. Mike, his older brother, was in town, and Wes wanted to spend as much time as possible with him. Mike lived in San Francisco, where he worked for Jacobs & Smith, a lawyer like their father.
Despite their different career paths, indeed their different interests, Wes and Mike were close. Wes had missed his older brother since the last visit over Christmas, a brief appearance at the family dinner with the latest girlfriend, an attachment that gave the brothers precious little time alone together, which was why Wes especially valued the opportunity to be together today. Mike had taken care of business, the purpose of the trip, sooner than expected, giving them most of his last day together. Wes had no Tuesday classes at the university.
Mike’s college roommate, Jimmy, worked on the 88th floor of the South Tower of the World Trade Center, another lawyer, but it turned out the timing was bad for a visit, so Mike and Jimmy decided to meet briefly before work. This was why the brothers had come to the towers this early in the morning.
“How long will you be?” Wes asked as they walked across a plaza toward the South Tower.
“Jimmy has a meeting at nine. I’ll meet you in the coffee shop.”
“How’s he like working for a big corporation?”
“Jimmy likes making money.”
“So do you, big brother.”
Mike smiled, letting the family renegade have the last word. He admired his little brother more than he’d ever told him. Mike fully expected Wes to write a hit movie or a best-selling novel and become the wealthiest member of the family.
They did not look like brothers. Mike, at six-two, retained the athletic build that had won him accolades in high school, though he hadn’t played organized football since then. His hair was dark and curly, after their mother. Wes took after their father, blond and stocky, though not yet fat, and short enough to wish he were taller.
At the entrance into the building, a balding man, surely a tourist, was bending precariously back, trying to shoot up the overwhelming reach of the tower, barely keeping his balance. Tens of thousands of tourists visited the twin towers of the World Trade Center daily – on normal days, that is, which this one was not destined to be.
Wes and Mike exchanged smiles as they passed the tourist. They entered the building, showed photo IDs to the security guard and moved on.
This was only the second time Wes had been in the building. As the first time, the experience of entering the lobby was overwhelming, and he gawked under the enormous presence of glass and steel, commerce as cathedral. Around him men and women rushed by with more mundane interests, getting to work, turning on computers, beginning the tasks of the day, but Wes hesitated as Mike walked on, taking it all in.
When he realized that Mike was moving away from him, heading toward the elevators, Wes called, “Look for me near the coffee stand!”
8/28/2003 05:36:20 AM |
Wednesday, August 27, 2003
Emmett's Gift
My novel Emmett's Gift, finished last summer, will be published in paperback soon (ISBN 1-58898-948-8) and can be downloaded as an ebook (pdf file) free from my literary archive at UNC. Here is a synopsis. I thought of serializing it here but it's twice as long as Love in the Ruins, it would take too long.
8/27/2003 01:26:23 PM |
Decisions, decisions
Ever since I returned from vacation, I've been wondering what the hell to do with this blog. I returned in a more "private" mode than the one in which I left, and a blog isn't a private vehicle.
But today I decided what to do. I'm working hard on the rewrite of my short novel, Love in the Ruins, working into its first presentable draft. I'm going to serialize it here. I may start today. A chapter at a time, every few days. Onward.
8/27/2003 12:19:41 PM |
Sunday, August 24, 2003
Changes
I find myself in a more reclusive mood than usual since returning from camping. As part of that, I have little energy to contribute to this blog. Have little inclination to share anything. Mainly keeping my nose in my own work.
8/24/2003 05:58:32 PM |
Saturday, August 23, 2003
Back to work
It was nice to be gone, and it's nice to be back. Camping afforded lots of time to evaluate what I'm doing as a writer these days. I'm very aware of my age, soon to turn 64, and that my writing time is more limited than my ideas, which means I have to select my projects with care. In selecting projects, I am paying no attention whatever to "being commercial," even if such a thing could be predicted, but rather am choosing projects that matter mostly to me, for personal reasons. I've renewed my enthusiasm for Love in the Ruins, the novel at hand, and have solved the "voice" problem I've been wrestling with. I know what project comes next. Onward.
8/23/2003 03:31:49 AM |
Friday, August 22, 2003
Home, sweet home
Back from 2 weeks in the woods, battery charged, soul renewed. Onward.
8/22/2003 01:17:28 PM |
Friday, August 08, 2003
"Gone fishing"
Back eventually. In the meantime, visit my literary archive.
8/8/2003 09:09:10 AM |
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
Preparations
Leave on camping vacation Saturday. Put up our two tents today, the small one we use overnight on the run and the large one we use when we get there. Both in fine shape. Looking good. Feeling much better, too! Onward.
8/6/2003 04:58:30 PM |
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
Fads
And then there are folks who don't think enough. Access crazyfads.com.
8/5/2003 09:24:36 AM |
On not thinking too much
An essay by John Derbyshire. Access now.
8/5/2003 09:21:38 AM |
Progress
Seem to have lost the cough and definitely am feeling better. In nick of time: go on vacation at end of week.
In the meantime, no writing getting done and lots of reading. More clarification of my protagonist in the next project, a nephew of a minor historical character but one who is useful because he kept a journal of the period. Looking better all the time. Onward.
8/5/2003 06:09:00 AM |
Sunday, August 03, 2003
Vibrant Seattle
Seattle is such a wonderful city to visit! Reminds me what a big town Portland is in comparison.
We arrived Friday afternoon and stayed in the Best Western Pioneer Square Hotel. Wonderfully located in a neighborhood full of galleries, sidewalk cafes and fine restaurants. In fact, a fabulous Italian restaurant is just across the street (best red pasta sauce I've had in decades).
We came for the Mariners game, and Friday night's game was a disaster. The morning paper called it "Freddy's Freaky Friday." Garcia gave up 7 runs before leaving in the 2nd, and that was all she wrote. But Safeco Field is a fantastic stadium, and we had a great time despite the slaughter. And the Mariners got even last night, winning big while Oakland was losing, so our visit didn't cost them anything in the long run.
On the way back Saturday we stopped at Tacoma, another favorite town, to have lunch in the wonderful cafe attached to the Glass Museum, then to check out the new Tacoma Art Museum down the street.
My health was so-so, running on half to three-quarter cylinders, but it did feel good to get out and about. Onward.
8/3/2003 04:24:40 AM |
Friday, August 01, 2003
Updike on Emerson
On the 200th anniversary of Emerson's birth. Access now.
8/1/2003 06:02:53 AM |
Seattle bound
Off to Seattle today to see a Mariners game, then hit some galleries on our way home. A test of my energy and endurance. Onward.
8/1/2003 05:45:20 AM |
Happy birthday, Ramblin' Jack!
Ramblin' Jack Elliott is 72 today. He is one of my heroes, about whom I've written here before.
Melville also was born on this day.
8/1/2003 05:43:22 AM |
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__The Writing Life
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