The Poor Writer

Die Arme Poet by Carl Spitzweg

The painting was hanging in the window of a book-binding shop. "That is what I want to be," said Dee. "A writer, living in a cool attic, surrounded by old books." I thought he was kidding.

We were just young students in Europe, dreaming of our future together, exactly forty years ago today. I remember the date, because I wrote it down. I wrote then, as I do now, to clean out my mind and store away precious memories. Dee kept a journal to collect information for stories: facts, images and ephemera (little bits of stuff.) We were well on the way to our future!

Alfred Kazin wrote, "The writer writes in order to teach himself, to understand himself, to satisfy himself; the publishing of his ideas is a curious anticlimax."

Well, maybe for Alfred. I love it when we finish a book!

The prototype is finished!

(Link to Heritage Associates to see how Marta designed this book.)

These are the folks who have been inside my head and computer for two years.

And here is their story.

Writing a book is like reading one. The characters become friends,
and I hate to say good-bye.
Well, sort of.