I’m in a yucky place right now. Don’t know why, exactly… except that I do know that my moods are like this. Creative highs are rapidly followed by lows.
Back when I was a rock star, and even when I was a coffee-singer, this happened after almost every single gig. I got to the point where I was surprised when post-performance depression didn’t set in.
I remember one night… I think it was a gig at the Coach House in San Juan Capistrano. It would have had to have been the night we opened for the Havalinas and Mary’s Danish. My sadness was crushing after that gig — after playing in front of a thousand people, and playing really, really well. It was a home crowd, friendly, wildly supportive. The whole place, and good ol’ Smutty, the bassist from the Havalinas… they all dug us.
It didn’t matter. By the time I was back at the Loveless Loft (yes, we named our trashy bachelor rock and roll pad — we were in our twenties) I didn’t want to do anything. It took CJ, singing Blondie to me over the bed, to bring a smile to my face. There are few moments in my life when I was that grateful for the right woman in my life.
So, now. I’ve written a book, it’s doing well on the scale that it is, I receive letters from strangers telling me they like the words I’ve put down on paper, people give me money in exchange for space on their bookshelves. It’s crazy… it’s what I’ve been wanting.
But an old friend, a guy who has made his living writing nonfiction… he’s in the middle of his own first novel. I send him a word of encouragement. Like Charlie Brown at his mailbox on Christmas, I check this guy’s LiveJournal to see if he’s acknowledged my comment. And… nothing.
I don’t expect anything. He doesn’t respond. Ever.
We were best friends, long ago. I know I wasn’t the best friend, but then, neither was he — it was high school, and in the throes of growing up, you sometimes betray one another. But he still stood at my side at my first wedding, and I was still the guy he called when his girl left him.
Somewhere along the way… I don’t know. I don’t even know if I miss him, or the memory of him, or the concept of a best friend. I live in this desert town where… ah, well, I’ve bitched about this town before. Search “redneck” or “conservative” or “NASCAR” on this blog, you’ll see. In any event, I don’t relate to the people I’m surrounded with. I grok people who are hundreds and thousands of miles away.
Anyway… yeah, I know I’m rambling. Scribtotum isn’t about writing, it’s about talking with you. So listen, or click away.
My old friend’s book will be done soon, I hope. I’d just like to see what he comes up with. I’d like to help him, if I can. Once upon a time, he said that he credited me with getting him started as a writer. We’ve both lived another lifetime since then. Water under the bridge, no?
I reckon not.
Well, I’ll let you know if he finishes it, no doubt. I’ll buy one, if he publishes it. I’ll take what I can get.