Okay. I have a confession to make. I’m sixty-five, officially a senior, who at the moment is not sure he likes the handle of his blog; and here I’m out of bed at a quarter to three in the morning reluctantly fishing for ideas. The struggle is normal, for I know I’m not a whiz. I look up to most serious writers, of any ilk, particularly those who started writing at an early age, marathoners like me, who remain clueless as to where their original drive to write came from.
With me, though, I wrote for the attention. I liked to be in the center of a circle and shock girls (with off –colored dialogue), but I couldn’t read well or write anything properly. I grew up in a “he-don’t” home; my mother couldn’t spell or even compose a sentence, consequently to this day my grammar is less than perfect. And though I struggled when I read I turned to reading plays because I thought plays were easier to read than anything else. I liked O’Neill and because of him I’ve got the wife I have, one son too and two grandchildren; I think Long Days Journey Into Night is one of the few American classics that we have. It stands with Death Of A Salesman, Whose Afraid of Virginia Who?, and The Odd Couple. (Alas, maybe here is something we can debate: you have your list and I have mine.)