... that the blog I posted on August 10 about escaping into writing my novel was not well received in certain circles.

Not that anybody said anything about it with a comment here -- which in itself is a bit of a comment -- but some people spoke with me about it directly, and not in happy ways. 

Oh well. 

But I press ahead, and had already been thinking that I had left out a big issue in that blog. A big issue for me, anyway.

Some of you know, of course, that sometimes life is hard. (I keep thinking of the Ray Charles song "Hard Times," which I have sometimes sung with my blues band. Here is a link to lyrics for that wonderful song.)

At the moment, life is a bit hard for my family and me. That's life (That's what all the people say, uh, something something, uh something ... in May), and I'm not complaining about it. I believe in God, believe good things come, I believe my life is led by God in many ways, and I trust Him. 

But ... still I worry, ya know? I want to take care of my family. I want to provide for them.

And I have to say that one of the gifts of writing a novel is that in my little tiny pea brain (my old friend Michael Burkett used to call it my "split-pea brain -- no -- split lentil brain"), I believe I am doing something good for my family by working on my novel.

I'm a realist -- I know of many, many writers who have produced book after book without finding a publisher; I know, personally, brilliant, talented authors who have sold way fewer copies of their books than they deserved; I know some publishers want younger authors, in hopes of putting promotional money into writers who may have more years of production left (I am 419 years old, in dog years). 

 But ... I know of Rex Stout, who started his writing career late and produced a ton of great books; I know of Woody Allen, who just released a very well reviewed movie at the age of 72; and I know of many other fine minds who produced and produced until finally shuffling off this mortal coil. 

 Plus ... I think I am writing something good. 

So ... when I can't find a good job in the beleagured and suicidal newspaper industry, when things are tough, when I have already hit all the job boards and submitted my sheaves of applications ... I can still feel I am doing something good for my family, when I dive into working on my novel.  Because maybe it will make a buck, some day. 

 It may not work out, I know ... but I am working at it. I am doing something.

 IN OTHER THOUGHTS,  MERCEDES SIGHTINGS:  On Friday evening I went to Valley Fair mall to pick up some take-out for my wife and kids. (Yes, yes, I know cooking at home would save money, but dude, my wife and I both worked all day and neither of us could bear the thought of facing the stove.)

In the left-turn lane from Stevens Creek Boulevard I happened to pull up behind a Mercedes ML320, which is a big SUV. I first spotted some little stickers that each said "Support your local Hells Angels." There were three of them. Once each from Daly City, Sacramento and San Jose. Then I spotted the frame around the license plate, which had these words: "Yeah, I'm a bitch, just not yours."

That combination of phenomena -- rich car, Hells Angels stickers and the plate-frame -- engendered many thoughts, and speculation about who might own such a car (I never saw the driver) and of course these Don Henley lyrics came to mind:

"Out on the road today
 I saw a Dead Head sticker on a Cadillac
A voice inside my head said don't look back
You can never look back."

But, of course, the Henley lyrics are silly to begin with and rife with old prejudices.  The biggest single tip my band ever received was from a well-to-do guy at the Pioneer Saloon in Woodside who asked us to play a Grateful Dead tune. We didn't, and still don't, know any Dead tunes. But he was a real nice guy, who happened to have some money, and who happened to love the Dead.  He was as sincere about meaningful Dead lyrics as anybody, even if he was nicely dressed with no tie-die in sight.

And, lots of Hells Angels have plenty of money and like to travel off-road, so the  Mercedes ML320 makes plenty of sense.

But I still wonder what that license-plate frame means.  Who says she is a bitch? And if she is, does it matter that she is not ours?

I suspect it is  an issue of semantics. Perhaps she is saying "Yes! I am woman! Hear me roar! But I am not YOUR woman! I am dedicated to someone who rides a Harley! It is for that person I roar. Therefore, cease your endless gaping at my  secondary sexual characteristics and keep your rude commentary about the way I drive to yourself."

I dunno. 

And then ... after that Mercedes pulled into a parking structure, I ended up behind another Mercedes -- this one was a polished sedan, a C230. 

Practically an economy car, by Mercedes standards. 

And this Mercedes had a bumper sticker I liked. It said "THIS CAR IS A HORCRUX."

Man, that is wonderful. 

For those of you who haven't yet gotten far enough into the Harry Potter books to know what horcruxes are, please let me explain. 

A horcrux is created when a wizard or witch tears off a part of his or her soul and stores it in another object. The tearing of the soul is managed by murdering another human being. 

Kill someone, murmur the right incantation with help of a wand, and you can put a piece of your soul in some object, which becomes a horcrux.  Handy for safe-keeping.

So ... someone, if all this is to be taken literally (and, of course, it is not), murdered someone in order to rip off a piece of  his or her own soul, then invested that soul in that Mercedes C230, making it a horcrux. 

Well, that's capitalism for ya!