Red Room Where the Writers Are

I used to make myself ill with rage. I didn’t and still don’t agree with the establishment of a Jewish state and I especially object to Israelis claiming to speak in my name.

I love starting a new novel. There is something so filled with hope, and purpose.  You've got the idea, it excites you.

I was walking in the woods yesterday though a shady summer Northern California hillside of madrone, bay laurel, and oak.

I once wrote a “dirty” book called Showing Pink.  "Some people write about sex using metaphors," a friend told me. "In Showing Pink, you use sex as a metaphor for everything else."

A novel?

All Kafka, all the time, was not my intent for this blog . But I don't mind him roaming around.

I'm looking out my office window, trying to write, but mostly watching a low-slung fox hunt a squirrel. The fox makes me think of a coat I once had, its plush, silky collar.

A burrow offers security and comfort, and Kafka found both in his sister's tiny house on the Golden Lane.

I've sworn I wouldn't do it. I feel like I'm stepping into dangerous territory -- blogdom.

Last winter, I hit a bump. A big bump. I forgot why I write.