For some reason, this surprised me. I don't know why. I've met many people in my life who were somewhat gifted. You know the kind of kid who can figure things out really well and really fast. In math. Maybe a guy who could do all kinds of magic tricks with a basketball on court. I've seen guys score baskets who never actually saw the hoop. But a witch?

"She's a witch?" I said. It was as much a statement as a question. Maybe I'd already figured it out on my own, but hadn't admitted it to myself just yet.

"Of course. I thought you knew that." His voice carried a decisive snap to it.

"Right," I said. "Maybe I had. Just hadn't yet mulled in over in my unconscious. Never met one before, I guess."

"You sure? Thought you said you were Artie's nephew."

"Am. Or was, as the case may or may not be."

"Well, she was a witch of the first water. Magnificent witch. They don't come any better."

That surprised me. A little. I wondered why it didn't surprise me more than it did. No one in the family had ever mentioned anything like that.

"Someone here, I don't remember who, said she could, well, conjure up things. I thought she might have a gift of sorts. But a witch?"

"And you may be a warlock. That's a male witch."

"I don't believe it," I said. And, no doubt, I had a derisive tone in my voice.

"Doesn't matter whether you believe it or not," said Gabbert. "But it does matter, I assure you, whether others believe it or not. So I wouldn't go around spreading that kind of news about being one or not being one except maybe here in The Coogan. Remember, we haven't had a good witch burning in some time, but that doesn't mean it couldn't happen. Or a good werewolf hunt. Me? I'd hate to see that. And just like the old wives' tale, I'm very careful around silver."

"You're right. Perhaps I was taking the situation too lightly," I said. "I came here in hope of finding some peace and quiet so I could do some writing. Didn't expect something like...well, like The Coogan."

"Malibu, huh?"

"Malibu," I said. "I haven't done any real writing since my aunt died. Thought I'd better get back to it, if I'm going to really be a writer. Just a short story first."

"I prowl around now and then. If I hear anything interesting over there, I'll let you know."

"Thanks, Jim."

He finished his Diet Pepsi and wandered off. Sort of trotting. A two-legged trot. I sat there until he disappeared down the lane.

A witch, huh? I've never concerned myself with witches. You come out of Texas, you're likely to meet a woman now and then that seems quite different from the girls you knew back in school. Both high school and college. They may have not been really witches, of course. but they were close. Maybe I've misspelled the word.

Whups! Again, I was taking the matter perhaps too lightly. In retrospect, my entire life had been much like that. Too lightly. Even writing. I'd been a writer, yes. But it was just something that I did because I could do it. I really wanted to be a writer, though. That is, I wanted to be a real writer. A serious writer. This was something I'd seldom admitted before coming to The Coogan. Except to myself. Some women hear this word "writer" and their eyes light up and quite often their claws spring out. I have no idea why writers are attractive to these scattered women. Maybe it's because we can spell. You ever witness a woman try to spell a word with three or more syllables? Like a cat having a fit.

So, I usually told women, when necessary, that I worked on a computer. This was precisely the truth.

Whether they were witches or merely bitches, most women drifted away after that. Computers are dull. So, really, are writers. Because when you get to it, writing is a lonely business. Boring to a great extent. Thus, by extrapolation, I was a boring person.

I've got to tell you something else, though. It was always easy to chase some women away. Because beauty, I can recognize. Most men can recognize it, too. Some women are especially beautiful. Sexually exciting! But I've met very few interesting women in my life who had this sex thing and were also beautiful. Some women -- not many -- broadcast sex. Like a lighthouse. I don't why. Or how they do it. But you see them and it's like being hit with a brick. I saw one of these strange creatures when I was at an employment office in Austin, Texas, applying for my G.I. Bill benefits. She was closely in tow by a guy, probably an ex-G.I. I couldn't blame him for hovering around her like a blanket. Every G.I. in the place would have hit on her. Guarantee you. I don't think the girl knew she had us drooling.

In New York at a press function, there was a girl who knew exactly what she was doing to every man at the table.

Once, on a subway, there was a young Afro-American girl. She didn't know. Probably never found out, either.

I think most women know. If they've got it. It's just that extremely few have it. Whatever it is.

Interesting women are something different. They may be pretty and maybe even beautiful. But not necessarily. Their beauty is inward. Something you can't explain. Like the beauty one sees in a rare painting or an odd vase. But they are interesting because of something else. You can't explain this either. At least not very well. They know things. But don't always have to tell you.

Perhaps I was just another very boring person searching for a very exciting woman. And I hadn't seen anything close in months even though New York City, I suppose, had a decent quota of them. I think my opportunities were quite limited -- probably zero -- for finding a woman like that now that I lived in The Coogan.

For the moment, however, I had to shelve any contemplation about women because I noticed that The Coogan was in an uproar. First, I heard a humming low and away somewhere in the shrubbery, maybe in the branches of the eucalyptus trees, maybe even in the blades of the grass in the small glade near my hut. Then someone ran down the lane toward the trail to the beach and disappeared in that direction. A wind came and went, like a dustdevil, across the glade.

I then heard a car crunching slowly down the graveled road from the highway. A black limousine pulled into the clearing and stopped. But no one got out. The windows were tinted almost black. I couldn't see anyone in the car.

A window facing me rolled slowly down, but stopped after a couple of inches. I felt someone was studying me. Then the limousine backed up, turned around, and departed up the graveled road. The car's engine, muted, faded away.

"See?"

Jana had appeared as if by magic at my elbow.

"See what?"

"That, painter...."

"Writer."

"...that, writer, is our big problem."

"A stray car?"

"A developer. They intend to take The Coogan away from us. They did that on the east coast a while back. Took away someone's house to build a shopping center. You want a supermarket where your house stands now?"

"Not too much," I told her.

To be honest, I couldn't get concerned. I didn't read that much into a solitary car meandering and lost, albeit temporarily, in the glade.

"We've got to do something."

She seemed pensive. But from the tone of her voice I could tell she had no clue about what to do.

I shrugged. Neither did I. But I didn't think we really had a problem.

"Maybe whoever it was won't be back," I suggested.

She closed her eyes briefly.

"They'll be back. Soon, I think." This time, she said it as if she knew.

"I thought I now owned the hut and the land it's on," I said.

"You do," she said. "Your Aunt Artie owned all of The Coogan. Several acres. All around the bay. Some former husband gave it to her as part of the divorce settlement."

"You mean that I now own everything including my hut?"

"Nope. Artie willed The Coogan to us all and those yet to come here. I guess the house is yours. I would hate to be the person who tries to take it away from you in any case."

"What could I do to stop someone? You make it sound as if I'm dangerous."

"How am I supposed to know? I don't know everything. You're the painter or writer or whatever you call yourself. Anyway, I don't think it's you that would give them a bunch of trouble. I think it's Artie they'd have to worry about. Maybe you, too, of course. But they'd better mind their Ps and Qs where your Aunt Artie is concerned. They'd better not mess with her. Guarantee you."

A ghost causing trouble?

"I can see that I need to have a good talk with my aunt," I said.

"At least, she'll talk with you. She won't talk to me anymore. Now that she's dead."

She sounded a bit miffed about this.

"When did you discover you were a witch?" I asked.

"Artie told me not long after I came here. She said that was the reason I came to The Coogan...seeking others like me. People who were gifted in some way. All of us in The Coogan are gifted in one way or another. Even Wolfie."

"Wolfie?"

"Mr. Gabbert. The werewolf."

Cute. Evidently, few people even took werewolves dangerously in The Coogan. Assuming, of course, Gabbert was a real werewolf. Or just deranged.

"I met him earlier," I said. "Isn't it somewhat dangerous to have a werewolf, real or not, hanging around? At least, when the moon is full. That's in all of the horror movies."

"Used to be. Your Aunt Artie fixed that. Some kind of medicine she cooked up with Judith. Wolfie still howls at full moon, but that's about it. Actually, I think he's sort of afraid of people now."

"He wasn't afraid of me," I pointed out.

"That's because you're you," she said.

Me? That was a rather interesting tidbit of information. Werewolves weren't afraid of me. Well, you discover something new just about every day.

One thing for sure, the more I learned about my aunt, the more I was fascinated with her. But mostly I found out stuff about her in casual conversations such as this. When I asked directly, I seldom discovered anything. The same rule of thumb applied to myself, come to think of it.

"My aunt was gifted, huh? Something such as The Coogan seems more of a burden, at the moment, than a blessing."

"More like an obligation, painter. We all have our obligations."

"I don't owe anything to anybody," I said.

"Okay, so you're a writer, whatever that is. Maybe more. Big deal! But you owe. Just like me. Just like everyone in The Coogan."

I shook my head. Like a dog wagging its tail.

"I have trouble talking with you," I told her. "Sometimes you just don't make sense."

She flared up.

"You want sense? I'll give you some sense. Big Time. All you have to do is call your aunt," she said.

"You call her," I said.

"Can't," she said. "Not my gift."

"And me?"

"You've got it."

"No, I haven't. I just tried."

"Silly. It's a personal thing. You have to be by yourself. Try it down at the beach. I'll keep everyone away."

I started to suggest she could leave and let me have the recliner. I was quite positive I could think better I were relaxed in a comfortable chair.

"Yes, boss," I said.

I climbed to my feet from the edge of the porch of the hut, saluted her royal majesty, and walked down the lane toward the beach. Just like I was ordered to do.

Many things still astonished me about The Coogan. The trail to the beach was sometimes long, sometimes less. Often, it twisted and twined. Now and then you had to brush aside the shrubbery. Today? The walk was only a few minutes. And the beach was deserted. Easy to understand why. The marine layer that often blankets much of the California coast had not yet lifted. The fog shifted, drifted, rolled over the sand. I had difficulty finding the old tree limb. Found it more by memory than sight.

(continued next week)

Bob Skurzewski: "Would you care to hear Perry, Dan Neaverth and
Lucky Pierre on WHTT-FM, Buffalo, back in 1999? It was a Rock and
Roll re-union. The broadcast in question took place of a Friday
morning. Perry a Pierre, along with a few other DJs, were treated
like royalty. They stayed at a nearby hotel with room and board
picked up by the station. If they wanted to go anyplace, a limo was
dispatched for them. Friday was freeform all day long. Saturday
daytime was also on-air time. Saturday night was a live concert with
the DJs on stage from time to time between Freddy Cannon and a few
other musical stars. Here is shot at a private party, but part of
the re-union. Tom Shannon, my wife Terri skurzewski, Lucky Pierre
and Perry Allen. This is a favorite of mine." (Photo courtesy of Bob
Skurzewski)

Bob Skurzewski: "Good read again in your column as posted by Larry Shannon. You mentioned Gary Owens in your article and I was wondering about him. I assume he is still with us and if you knew him well or know how to get to him? I ask, as the late Perry Allen wrote a potential book, now in manuscript form. He told me his working title was "Good Luck Dick Jockey." He told me the whole story on how that came about. That is in my manuscript and I can share the crazy details on it if you want. It turns out that there may be two manuscripts on the same subject but with different writing styles. Where am I going with this? Perry and Gary were buddies. Perry got locked into a need for an edit. Perry turned to Gary and asked him to read it and work on it. Gary was supposed to have liked it and did some edit work. The plot thickens. When Perry passed away, his family had to vacate his premises and neither manuscript was found. I have tried to deal with several people via e-mail and all turned out to be dead ends. I did converse with Lee Allen, his son, and he told me they went through everything looking for anything that looked like a manuscript. Soooooooo! Any chance we can get to Gary Owens and see if he has a copy of the manuscript? Would love to see this thing in print. Many thanks, no matter the outcome."

Note: I have forwarded Skurzewski’s note on to Gary Owens via snailmail.

Bigger note: Sam Hale was kind enough to mail me a copy of "Nashville Broadcasting" by Lee Dorman. The book is available for $21.99 from Arcadia Publishing, www.arcadiapublishing.com. I won’t lie: It’s going to take me quite a while to absorb this book. Mostly photos. Gerry House, Ralph Emery, Jack Stapp, Jay Thomas, Scott Shannon, Coyote McCloud, etc., but it goes back to Jack DeWitt. And, behold, there’s a Ronn Terrell fan club card when he worked on WDKA. Kevin, you ought to see this picture of your dad when he was a "cooker," as Don Graham used to say. John R. is in here, along with Hoss Allen. And Captain Midnight. I’m going to love this book. You would, too! For copies: sales@arcadiapublishing.com or phone 1-888-313-2665.

LIMBAUGH MATTERS

Rick Boisvert, Levittown, NY: "Thanks for admitting that you don't listen to Rush Limbaugh before insulting him. Refreshing."

I sense a huge dab of sarcasm here. Well put. In my defense, I’ve criticized Rush Limbaugh and Howard Stern before. Nothing new about that. I don’t think either one worth a hill of beans and there’s nothing worse on this planet than a lousy disc jockey.

You’ve got to understand: I love the concept of the disc jockey…the free spirit that ranges from an Alan Freed to a Howard Miller to a Rod Roddy or a Long John Silver…all the way to a Rocky G, William B. Williams and a Gary Owens. Bring back Bob Van Camp. Bring back Salty O’Brine. Bring back Dan Daniels and Georgie Woods and Hy Lit. Over the years, I met and knew many great, great disc jockeys and I held these in great respect. Just being around a Frank Ward or a Tom Clay or a Charlie Tuna or a Robert W. Morgan and Don Imus was an honor.

Though some disc jockeys, indeed, have been rascals like when Rod Roddy got fired in Dallas and Joey Reynolds in Hartford, CT, for insulting the mayors of those cities. But to me there has always been something uniquely creative about the disc jockey per se…his ability to entertain and inform. The Magnificent Montague mentioned to me once that he thought his audience could barely wait for the record to end because they were so eager to hear what he was going to say. These great deejays: Talking wondrously and excitingly and playing music. A talk jock to me is naught more than a disc jockey without a record.

The late Bill Drake, world’s most advocate of more music, once told me that he didn’t mind a disc jockey talking as long as they had something to say. Stern and Limbaugh obviously haven’t had anything worth saying in years and years. Their minds, if they have any, are blank. Empty. In pretense of knowing something, Stern waxes scatological. But there’s no intellect in either man. To even believe that Limbaugh and Stern have a soul, have a heart, have a mind is an absurdity! I once had a tape of a given show by Gary Dees on a radio station in Cleveland, circa mid-to-late 60s. Gary Dees (a radio name, of course; I never knew his real name) was the worse abomination I ever heard on radio. Completely despicable. Stern would be second. Followed by Limbaugh, who is not so much despicable as just lousy.

OTHER MATTERS

Rob Moorhead, Los Angeles: "Big Tiny? Oh Christ almighty! Are we talking the same Big Tiny? How many could there be? Huge guy: half muscle; half fat; half diplomatic teddybear. After the Palomino, or maybe concurrent with its decline -- I don't remember -- he became the backstage gatekeeper of choice for every important gig in L.A. He was the heart attack-waiting-to-happen fixture at back door of every industry event in the '80s. Rarely did I ever see him ever get physical. No one, no matter how drunk, wired or arrogant was going to touch this guy. There was a daunting finality in his decisions. Plus, there was a always that cadre of muscular assistants on-hand to ‘escort’ you away.

"Very nice man...as long as you heeded his coda for admittance. Come to think of it, he was a very nice man even if you didn't. He was unique in that way. A pompous drunken fool righteously turned away on a Monday would be treated with the utmost respect and graciously admitted on a Tuesday, provided, of course, he met that night's criteria. All past transgressions were seemingly forgotten. He lived in the moment, or pretended to.

"He knew everybody, so backstage list or not, he recognized those who deserved access and waved them by. But if he didn't know you, or if you weren't on the list -- or even if you were on the list but being an insufferable jerk that night -- the word was ‘NO’. No double checking, no listening to stories. He would sometimes offer an option: ‘wait over there, and if you see someone you know going in, get them to bring me approval from the tour manager inside’. Or he would allow you to cool down; ‘Come back in ten minutes and I'll let you know’. Follow his directions and things might work out. Don't, and even Jesus' Second Coming could cool heels outside the door until hell froze over.

"It was hugely entertaining just to hang by the backstage door and watch Tiny at work. He diffused any confrontation with a minimum of words, then would look past you, over your shoulder, and say, ‘next?’ Of course, this bruised some huge industry egos. Invariably, some muckety-muck with huge industry-weight would threaten, ‘You let me in or I'll have your job!’ That verbal grenade went by him several times a night. Didn't matter. He was particularly deaf to that one. He held no grudge or malice, and even a long friendship or acquaintance with Tiny only meant that he offered you a ‘sorry’ when he wouldn't let you in. So professional.

"It wasn't personal, it was his business. Somehow his coda was a welcome and gentle ego-check for the mighty who believed everything in this business is personal. It's clearly not, through we pretend it is. You couldn't really get mad at Tiny. He was doing a tough job and doing it spectacularly.

"Imagine him working the ropeline at Studio 54? That would make a riotous short comedy film.

"I recall him being at the door for the Clash at the Palladium one night, railings on either side of the sidewalk to at the door. You couldn't squeeze through the doorway unless Tiny swung a leg over the railing and pulled himself out of the doorway for each admittance. You knew his physique, so I am sure you can picture the workout involved.

"A mob didn't intimidate him, he simply trained it to stand in queue like a proper mob should -- oh, and speak one at a time, please, or else risk being ignored.

"Such a mountain of a man, with that third-trimester of belly preceding his every step. I have never met another like him. Wonder what ever happened to him? Do you know?"

I, too, Rob, have wondered whatever happened to Big Tiny. There’s a movie called "Road House" that I watch now and then on television. It’s one of those little gems that the movie industry produced now and then. About a bouncer. Not Big Tiny, of course.

Vince Cosgrave, Los Angeles: "I recall the afternoon that Tommy Thomas came to me at the bar and said he could book Elvis Costello – ‘Have you ever heard of him, Vince?’ I went nuts on him with ‘Yes, YES’. As I recall, Elvis was playing weird venues for kicks at that point in his career. I remember Tommy Thomas, et al, with great reverence. Remember when the bouncer Tiny got shot with by arrow at the door? My wildest night was when Waylon, with most of the RCA staff there, grabbed the mike and yelled ‘Vince Cosgrave – I know you’re out there. Be in your office tomorrow morning. I’m conning in to sign up with you, hoss’. I had done nothing to promote this but considered him a good friend. Likewise my wife Terri with his wife Jessi; but boy did I catch hell from MCA. My famous quote from one A-hole was ‘Why would you want us to sign Waylon Jennings when you can’t make (forgot his name even – never got to first base or even out of the dugout) a star’. My fault, I guess. Anyway I did not know I was being followed nor by which label until I ran into his drummer Ritchie Allbrite in the Oklahoma City airport soon after and we had a drink or two together, waiting for our individual flights. Soooo. I caught it again when I got back to the Tower. A strange feeling to know you’ve had had a tail – very uncomfortable. Wow, the memories – when you think about it."

Ah, Vince! Just to elaborate a little on the arrow incident: Big Tiny had tossed someone out of the Palomino and he went home and got his archery equipment and came back and put an arrow through Big Tiny’s neck. The story I heard is that Big Tiny went to the hospital, had the arrow removed, and went back to work at the Pal.

I don’t recall anyone ever tailing me…but my phone at Billboard’s Sunset Boulevard was tapped for a while. During that payola flap. Didn’t bother me. I figured the FBI wouldn’t understand 90 percent of the conversations. I was doing some investigating myself. Biggest farce was Jack Anderson, the columnist who’d started it all. I caught up with him and we sat down and it turned out one of his assistants had written the stuff and it was regarding a small, obscure bluegrass label I never heard of and, anyway, I couldn’t imagine a couple of the radio guys I knew who were into payola playing a bluegrass record for any amount of money.

Nancy Sain, Los Angeles: "I spoke to Don Whittemore yesterday and he told me about your website. I visited this morning and really enjoyed all the update news plus your fantasy writing. Good for you! I recently joined Facebook and have been getting in touch with all my old radio and record buddies. It's really been fun. I recently got word from Scotty Brink and Marc Driscoll. Both are in Oklahoma working out of their houses. I saw Bob Levinson a few months ago at Macey Lipman's gallery showing. I worked with him years ago on a couple of music TV specials he produced. He always said he wanted to write. It's so wonderful he's fulfilled his goals. Keep up the great work."

WRITING MATTERS

Quality in Writing

From the lecture notes of Claude Hall

To some people, art is a four-letter word. Actually, art is a deliverance of knowledge from servitude to the will, this forgetting of the individual self and its material interest, this elevation of the mind to the will-less contemplation of truth, is the function of art. The object of science is the universal that contains many particulars; the object of art is the particular that contains a universal. "Even the portrait ought to be, as Winckelmann says, the idea of the individual." In painting animals the most characteristic is accounted the most beautiful, because it best reveals the species. A work of art is successful, then, in proportion as it suggests the Platonic Idea, or universal, of the group to which the represented object belongs. The portrait of a man must aim, therefore, not at photographic fidelity, but at exposing, as far as possible, through one figure, some essential or universal quality of man. Art is greater than science because the latter proceeds by laborious accumulation and cautious reasoning, while the former reaches its goal at once by intuition and presentation; science can get along with talent, but art requires genius. (Durant 336-337)

Even hostile objects, when we contemplate them without excitation of the will, and without immediate danger, become sublime. Similarly, tragedy may take an esthetic value, by delivering us from the strife of the individual will, and enabling us to see our suffering in a larger view. Art alleviates the ills of life by showing us the eternal and universal behind the transitory and the individual. Spinoza was right: "in so far as the mind sees things in their eternal aspect it participates in eternity." (Durant 337)

This power of the arts to elevate us above the strife of wills is possessed above all by music. "Music is by no means like the other arts, the copy of the Ideas" or essences of things, but it is "the copy of the will itself"; it shows us the eternally moving, striving, wandering will, always at last returning to itself to begin its striving anew. "This is why the effect of music is more powerful and penetrating than the other arts, for they speak only of shadows, while it speaks of the things itself." It differs too from the other arts because it affects our feelings directly, and not through the medium of ideas; it speaks to something subtler than the intellect. What symmetry is to the plastic arts, rhythm is to music; hence music and architecture are antipodal; architecture, as Goethe said, is frozen music; and symmetry is rhythm standing still. (Durant 337-338) Durant, Will. "The Story of Philosophy." New York: Pocket Books, 1961 (from chapter seven about Schopenhauer).

Characteristics of Good Writing

Art is difficult to define; it has certain parallels to wine tasting: You can recognize a good wine when you taste it. And the American public usually finds good writing and recognizes it in some manner. For example, the movie "Driving Miss Daisy" was a giant hit before it won the Oscars...the public found it, talked about it to friends. "The Color Purple" was literally a classic before it became a popular success. It started in the smaller movie theaters. Grew to prominence via word-of-mouth. "Up the Downstairs Case" started small as a book, became large, as did "Dune" by Frank Herbert.

There are some typical characteristics regarding art in writing:

1. Perseveres over time...the value might even increase,

2. Means more than it says in words...is a symbol,

3. Shapes human opinions, beliefs, actions, emotions,

4. Has hidden structures and or concepts that correlate to the subject matter, which add to the subliminal impact even though one may not be actually aware of them (a la Hemingway's iceberg),

5. Has visible structure–plot, story line, outline–that is usually logical and which is embellished by logical selections of:

a. Facts, incidents, situations,

b. Characters

c. Adjectives modifiers

d. Descriptions of place, scenes, sequences, transitions.

Most writers, more or less, write for one reason: Fame. But many, perhaps, write for another reason in addition. The creations of art? The desire to shape or change the world? The instinctive need to education and or inform those around us now or those yet to come?

Whatever reason, many of the more successful writers of today are driven. I don't think the late Irving Wallace cared much to education you or me, in spite of his "Book of Lists" which was mostly information (there was a smattering of entertainment value involved), but he specifically wanted recognition as a writer; he wanted to be accepted as a good or quality writer and not just as a hack, which he more than likely was in the final analysis.

What we hope to do at this point in the examination of writing is discuss quality in writing. The best way to do this, perhaps, is look seriously at what other writers who're fairly well respected have done in their own writing.

Tolstoy as Artist

Leo Tolstoy, an adamant figure for social reform, was born into the Russian nobility. Thus, even the Tsar did not dare to challenge him. In his novels -- which includes "Anna Karenina" – he sought to achieve a work of art and as well expound his philosophy of history, war, and the essence of man's greatness. In a letter to a friend, he said: "The aim of an artist is not to resolve a question irrefutably, but to compel one to love life in all its manifestations, and these are inexhaustible. If I were told that I could write a novel in which I could indisputably establish as true my point of view on all social questions, I would not dedicate two hours to such a work; but if I were told that what I wrote would be read twenty years from now by those who are children today, and that they would laugh over it and fall in love with the life in it, then I would dedicate all my existence and all my powers to it." (vi)

An Example From "War and Peace"

At that time, as always happens, the highest society that met at court and at the grand balls was divided into several circles, each with its own particular tone. The largest of these was the French circle of the Napoleonic alliance, the circle of Count Rumyántsev and Caulaincourt. In this group, Hélene, as soon as she had settled in Petersburg with her husband, took a very prominent place.

Her success as a beautiful and elegant woman did not surprise Pierre, for she had become even handsomer than before. What did surprise him was that during these last two years his wife had succeeded in gaining the reputation of a charming woman, as witty as she was lovely. Pierre, who knew she was very stupid, sometimes attended, with a strange feeling of perplexity and fear, her evenings and dinner parties, where politics, poetry, and philosophy were discussed. But whether because stupidity was just what was needed to run such a salon, or because those who were deceived found pleasure in the deception, at any rate it remained unexposed and Hélene Bezúkhova's reputation as a lovely and clever woman became so firmly established that she could say the emptiest and stupidest things and yet everybody would go into raptures over every word of hers and look for a profound meaning in it of which she herself had no conception. (229) Tolstoy, Leo. "War and Peace." New York: Pocket Books, 1968.

Irving Wallace, the author of the "Book of Lists" and "The Prize" and several other bestsellers, was so caught up with his need, his overwhelming passion for literary acceptance that he wrote a book about writing a book, specifically about writing his book, "The Prize."

John Steinbeck did it, too..."Journal of a Novel" (Viking, 1969) about "East of Eden" published in l952.

Sept. 3, l951

Writing is a very silly business at best. There is a certain ridiculousness about putting down a picture of life. And to add to the joke–one must withdraw for a time from life in order to set down that picture. And third, one must distort one's own way of life in order in some sense to simulate the normal in other lives. Having gone through all this nonsense, what emerges may well be the palest of reflections. Oh! it's a real horse's ass business. The mountain labors and groans and strains and the tiniest of rodents comes out. And the greatest foolishness of all lies in the fact that to do it at all, the writer must believe that what he is doing is the most important thing in the world. And he must hold to this illusion even when he knows it is not true. If he does not, the work is not worth even what it might otherwise have been. As it says in "The King and I"–"Is a mystery."

All this is a preface to the fear and uncertainties which clamber over a man so that in his silly work he thinks he must be crazy because he is so alone. If what he is doing is worth doing–why don't more people do it? Such questions. But it does seem a desperately futile business and one which must be very humorous to watch. Intelligent people live their lives as nearly on a level as possible–try to be good, don't worry if they aren't, hold to such opinions as are comforting and reassuring and throw out those which are not. And in the fullness of their days they die with one of the tearing pains of failure because having tried nothing they have not failed. These people are much more intelligent than the fools who rip themselves to pieces on nonsense. (207-208)

Later:

Sept. 6, l951

As to the work itself, only time will show whether it has been good. Sometimes it seems to me actually to have the high purpose I set for it, and at other times it seems pedestrian and trite. I know how much work must go into it after it is done but I have plenty of time for that and I am quite willing to do it. This is the Book still as far as I am concerned and I think it will continue to be until it is finally in your hands. Then of course there will be another book or a funeral. I think if I were forbidden by some force to work, I should last a very short time. (209-210)

Steinbeck finished the novel on Nov. 1, 1951. On Oct. 17, he wrote well more than 3,000 words. He thought of that particular day as having done two days' work. His wife Elaine corrected manuscript for him. He was vitally concerned about the book; some days, it was difficult for him to write; other days he was eager to get to the book.

Later:

Oct. 10, l951

I have noticed so many of the reviews of my work show a fear and a hatred of ideas and speculations. It seems to be true that people can only take parables fully clothed with flesh. Any attempt to correlate in terms of thought is frightening. And if that is so, "East of Eden" is going to take a bad beating because it is full of such things.

I don't really know how much I can do today. I'm a day ahead and perhaps I may just think. I have lots to think about in this final two weeks and a half. I may not have it done then. Can't tell. There's lots to do but I can't tell whether that lots is long or not until I come to it.

In a short time that will be done and then it will not be mine any more. Other people will take it over and own it and it will drift away from me as thought I had never been a part of it. I dread that time because one can never pull it back, it's like shouting goodbye to someone going off in a bus and no one can hear because of the roar of the motor. (223)

The woman who wrote "Gone With the Wind" (Macmillan, 1936) – Margaret Mitchell – had a terrible time giving the manuscript up. She kept horning in on the book and later on the movie and was a real pain to everyone involved.

Later, regarding Steinbeck:

Sept. 10, 1951

Now I must get to it. The episodes of this week stem from the other things of the last two weeks. And my hope is that I can conceal my symbol until the very last and make it only come flashing in when the whole episode is over. We will see whether or not I can do that. The next two weeks contain some of the most important work to be done. (212) Steinbeck, John (1969). "Journal of a Novel." New York: Bantam.

The "Journal of a Novel" was written like a letter to friend and editor Pascal Covici. The "letters" appeared only on the left-hand pages; on the right, when Steinbeck felt ready, he proceeded to the text of the novel. He usually filled two pages of the text a day with a total of about 1,500 words. There was a letter for every working day until the first draft of the novel was finished. The letter was primarily a method of warming up.

After the book was typed, Steinbeck made extensive revisions, omitted whole passages, and rearranged some of the chapters. "East of Eden" was published in 1952, 13 years after "The Grapes of Wrath." In the interval, Steinbeck published several shorter works, fiction and non-fiction. He was born in Salinas, CA, in 1902. Studied marine biology at Stanford, but soon left. Tried free-lance writing in New York City and failed. Returned to California and continued to write. His first popular success was "Tortilla Flat" in 1935. "Grapes of Wrath," is said to be so powerful that it remains among the archetypes of American culture. He received the Nobel Prize in 1962 for "The Winter of Our Discontent." He died in New York on Dec. 20, l968.

From "East of Eden" by John Steinbeck

Cathy went back to her room as the evening came down. At seven-thirty, Adam knocked. "I've got you some supper, dear. It's not much." The door opened as though she had been standing waiting. She was dressed in her neat traveling dress, the jacket edged in black braid, black velvet lapels, and large jet buttons. On her head was a wide straw hat with a tiny crown; long jet-beaded hatpins held it on. Adam's mouth dropped open.

She gave him no chance to speak. "I'm going away now."

"Cathy, what do you mean?"

"I told you before."

"You didn't."

"You didn't listen. It doesn't matter."

"I don't believe you."

Her voice was dead and metallic. "I don't give a damn what you believe. I'm going."

"The babies–"

"Throw them in one of your wells."

He cried in panic, "Cathy, you're sick. You can't go–not from me–not from me."

"I can do anything to you. Any woman can do anything to you. You're a fool."

The word got through his haze. Without warning, his hands reached for her shoulders and he thrust her backward. As she staggered he took the key from the inside of the door, slammed the door shut, and locked it.

He stood panting, his ear close to the panel, and a hysterical sickness poisoned him. He could hear her moving quietly about. A drawer was opened, and the thought leaped in him–she's going to stay. And then there was a little click he could not place. His ear was almost touching the door.

Her voice came from so near that he jerked his head back. He heard richness in her voice. "Dear," she said softly, "I didn't know you would take it so. I'm sorry, Adam."

His breath burst hoarsely out of his throat. His hand trembled, trying to turn the key, and it fell out on the floor after he had turned it. He pushed the door open. She stood three feet away. In her right hand she held his .44 Colt, and the black hole in the barrel pointed at him. He took a step toward her, saw the hammer was back.

She shot him. The heavy slug struck him in the shoulder and flattened and tore out a piece of his shoulderblade. The flash and roar smothered him, and he staggered back and fell to the floor. She moved slowly toward him, cautiously, as she might toward a wounded animal. He stared up into her eyes, which inspected him impersonally. She tossed the pistol on the floor beside him and walked out of the house.

He heard her steps on the porch, on the crisp dry oak leaves on the path, and then he could hear her no more. And the monotonous sound that had been there all along was the cry of the twins, wanting their dinner. He had forgotten to feed them.

Steinbeck, John. "East of Eden." New York: Penguin, 1979, p. 231-33.

What we see in Steinbeck's diary of "letters" was the tremendous struggle he had with writing. His doubts. His life and non-life.

If it was so difficult, why do it?

Can a writer do otherwise?

(continued next week)