Looking For The Good Part

[It's cold for San Francisco right now. Cold but sunny and clear. Boss-Man said it actually reminded him of his college days in Milwaukee. I think that's overstating it a bit, but...brrrr.]

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[I went back to the writer's studio in November after many months of absence. Violet, the founder of the group, has passed the day-to-day reins to a pleasant woman I've known slightly for a few years in order that she, Violet, can kick her world-domination plans into high gear. How nice for Violet. How nice for the studio. How nice for everybody.]

[That bitterness you hear is me wondering whatever happened to my excitement about the studio and about writing in general. When I began, as one of five founding members of what we still mock-grandly call the Society, I had a project about which I was excited, and whose structure I already saw in my mind. All that remained was getting it down, checking some facts, and learning the Blue Book's torturous footnoting rules. That's what the studio's for: if all that's standing in the way of your story is your procrastination, you WILL get it done if you go.]

[My issue for too long is that I don't have that major project, that story that I need to tell. I've started at least a half-dozen things, and I fizzle out because I don't have a clear idea of what I'm doing. Violet has always held me up to newbies as being a part of the studio for over four years (!). She doesn't understand that, to me, that's not much to brag about. The point of the place is to get your project done.]

[So, I'm not returning in December. I went back in November because Violet and her pleasant protegee needed my help. My crankiness at not really having a reason to be there (and paying an admittedly greatly reduced amount to attend) snowballed for me into annoyance at every aspect of the studio, from the bus ride there to people who talk too much. One less thing to dread...one more challenge ducked?]

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[Everyone's totally over Thanksgiving, but I never did give my report. Briefly, Kate's Brussels sprouts and my butternut squash were hits. My niece stands up on her own just fine, but seems not to be in any hurry to take her first step. (She also says "kitty" and "gato" interchangeably - Latina nanny, how Noe Valley.) And...there were only a few veiled "what are you doing with your life, Bill" instances. Ugh.]

[But, there was one golden moment. I slept on the hide-a-bed in the living room, while my sister and brother-in-law took the twin beds in my old bedroom, and my niece cribbed it solo in my parents' office, Kate's bedroom that was. I woke up Friday morning, slipped on the same chinos I'd worn the day and night before (I thought I'd packed the bare necessities, at least...nope), and went to eliminate the previous day's excesses.]

[As I left the loo, I heard the unmistakable baby burble of my niece coming from my parents' bedroom. I decided to check it out. My parents were still snug under their bedclothes and THAT ALPACA THROW THEY BOUGHT IN PERU THAT I'M TEMPTED TO STEAL EVERY TIME I VISIT IT IS SO SOFT, while my sister was perched on the foot of their king-size, on the left. (Mike was sleeping in.)]

[I sat my big, fat, lazy, dirty-chino'd ass on the right, and the Niece Audrey sort of careened around like an excited subatomic particle. It was exactly like all those Sunday mornings when I was growing up. All we needed was the old Sunday Chronicle-Examiner; specifically, the Sunday Punch (R.I.P.), with Herb Caen on the right, Art Hoppe on the left, a frothy non-editorial in the middle, and the Grab Bag inside. Kids' opinions of it all encouraged, for which I'll always be thankful.]

[That was the good part.]

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