C. Boyle: I’ve written to you on at least a half-dozen occasions, and was flattered when you actually wrote back in hand written notes resembling the script seen on prescription pads. I know, I know, you’re busy, and judging by your prolific production of noteworthy, to say nothing of highly entertaining literature, I don’t doubt that that’s true. The first thing that I ever read of yours’ was The Tortilla Curtain (1995) and I was impressed by your empathy and understanding extended towards illegal Mexican immigrants who are mostly just trying to achieve a better life for themselves, and in particularly, their children. Now we have the Mad King residing in our nation’s White House who vilifies these noble people for no other reason than he’s a racist prick. Anyway, I “borrowed” the words “myopic misunderstanding” from the Chicago Tribune’s back cover blurb in a story about the futility of the profession of landscape architecture entitled Myopia. Next came Budding Prospects (1984) a fast paced humorous marijuana growing caper set during that period of time when that was just about the most dangerous thing a person could do because Ronald Raygun was indeed gunning for them. Looking at how California botched the roll out of legal pot in 2016, these certainly were the good old days, and something I deeply and dearly miss. A Friend of the Earth (2000) also had a lasting effect on my psyche, and I even cited it in one of my ill-fated environmental books. Do not fret, my good man, I’ve read most everything else you’ve ever written including your voluminous short story collection, and all I can say is thanks.
Annie Dillard: I’m talking about The Writing Life (1989) here, and I’m relieved that titles can’t be copyrighted because I, and about one hundred others, have written pieces with the same one. But all pale in comparison to yours’. I am especially grateful for the advice you gave concerning the hoarding of good thoughts for later use. I’m liberally paraphrasing here, but the gist of it is that if you are working on a piece and a passage comes into your head that you initially feel is unrelated to what you are working on, don’t dismiss it and put it aside for possible use on another piece. There’s a reason why that thought occurred at that moment in time and that reason is that it somehow needs to be expressed now, not later. I can’t tell you how many times you have been right on about this, and I certainly appreciate your pointing it out to me.
Emily Brady: I thoroughly enjoyed Humboldt: Life on America’s Marijuana Frontier (2013). I admire that you spent a year working as a waitress and living amongst the outlaws and in-laws (law enforcement) in a dogged pursuit of the story, and you got it in just under the wire as the outdoor grower, the guerrilla grower, and the old school grower have all been forced into retirement or even deeper underground. What the squares, law enforcement, and the bible thumpers have always referred to as the “black market” has temporarily gotten even blacker, but all will eventually go the way of the dinosaur because the state of California now wants its money and has sent out its henchmen to collect it. If you ever were to ask me, I would tell you that legalization, which I have always supported and voted for, has merely served to sic the world of corporate douch-baggery upon the former drug of peace and love. God, how I hate it! Anyway, your account was enlightening, and most of all fair, even concerning the cop, because they are, after all, people too. You are one terrific journalist in my eyes.
Nora Ephron: Wallflower at the Orgy (2007) is, hands down, the best title ever. It kind of set the tone before I even pried open the covers, and when I did you delivered a treasure trove of humor and delicious gossip. Well done my good women. I hope that you are enjoying your dirt nap knowing that work such as this is destined to live on.
Philip Gerard: Creative Nonfiction: Researching and Crafting Stories of Real Life (1996) called me out as sloppy, lazy, and not at all dedicated to craft. I was humbled by it. I was most impressed by your insistence that the journalist had to go to where the story was unfolding, boots on the ground, in other words. These two passages convict me every time: The art of the craft of writing is to make it seem effortless, transparent as window glass, to make the difficult look easy… The writer labors so the reader won’t have to. Enough of this self-flagellation, not that it’s not well-deserved, but it’s now time to write. I promise that I’ll try to do better.
Yuval Noah Harari: Thank you sir for stringing it all together in Sapiens (2015), the story of the evolution of the species that I belong to. I was impressed by the depth of your intellect and somewhat embarrassed by the shallowness of mine. I could see why my environmental trilogy met with no critical acclaim and even less sales. Your research effort was staggering and your concern for how we treat the other animals of this world is empathetic and enlightening. Now, there is another mystery of the universe that could use some sorting out. It would be great if you could explain why the profession of landscape architecture gets no respect from the population at large. What do you say?
Thomas Jefferson: The Declaration of Independence (1776) still makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. So many people conflate it with the U. S. Constitution (mostly James Madison 1887) that they fail to realize that it is not the supreme law of our land. The Declaration contains 1,478 words (including signatures) and the Constitution contains 4,543 words (including signatures). I only mention this because it’s disturbing to me at least that two documents not any longer than an average short story in a college literary magazine mostly go unread. Although everyone thinks they know what is in them, in actuality, they rarely have a clue. Anyway, the eloquence of your language rings true to this very day. Marianne Williamson rallied around it when she called for a new American Revolution, but we don’t have the kind of balls that you guys did back in the day. We better find them soon or our republic is doomed. Don’t roll over in your grave just yet Tom; there’s an election coming up this year, and I’m holding out the kind of hope you must have had that the people will do the right thing in order to save our collective necks.
Betsy Lerner: My God, did I ever enjoy your description of the cowboy poets that you observed while in college, but I couldn’t help but feel that as a straight-laced Yankee girl that perhaps you might have fantasized about a tryst with one of these bad boys. Would you have accepted a date with one (or more) of them, maybe? Anyway, The Forest for the Trees: An Editor’s Advice to Writers (2000) knocked my socks off. I could see elements of all the psyches of writer’s personalities that you so eloquently described in myself, especially the neurotic.
Gregg Levoy: I have stated in writing that This Business of Writing (1992) is the single most brilliantly written thing that I have ever read. You just kept hitting me with one zinger after the other. Not that you didn’t provide some solid advice, most of which was lost on me in one way or another. I make a habit of reading it at least once a year, mostly during the dog days of summer, but it’s hard to say if any of it has sunk in. I want you to know that I’ll keep trying because my half-a-century quest to become an overnight literary sensation is ongoing, and this work, more than any other, keeps me going. I suppose a thank you would be kind of redundant.
Abraham Lincoln: Most people lament that your death robbed the nation of it greatest politician, and while I certainly believe that to be true, what I lament the most is that we were really robbed of one of our greatest writers. The Gettysburg Address (1863) is majestic and humble all at the same time. Talk about an economy of words, my goodness Honest Abe, you killed it! I have no doubt that your memoirs after leaving your second term of office, if only you would have made it that far, would have achieved the highest rungs on the ladder of American literature. What a tragedy, and more fittingly, what a waste.
Maria Konnikova: I want to thank you personally for helping me through some of the darkest days of my life. I had just been bilked out of 30 large and was really beating myself up because of my obvious stupidity, which I vowed would never be the case again. But, how? People really don’t change do they? I was determined to wise up, however, and in pursuit of that goal I purchased a hardcover copy of The Confidence Game: Why We Fall for It…Every Time (2016). That’s when the pieces all fell into place, and I came to realize that I was in fact a trusting old fool ripe for the taking. I was heartened by how perfectly normal you made my idiocy seem, but was somewhat disturbed to learn that I would probably fall victim to a conman again unless I cared to entirely withdraw from the human race, which I don’t. Well…until then, I take comfort in the fact that your words have shown me the way of the world, even if it can be a really shitty one. Thanks, anyway, and can I suggest that you turn your considerable intellect towards figuring out what’s wrong with the profession of landscape architecture. That would help a lot.
Flannery O’Conner: Yes, I’m aware that you are dead and gone, but no one who has ever read your stories could ever forget your deranged and despicable characters. Good God, what a rabble of truly horrible humanity. Father’s that deny their sons. People that run over other people with tractors and barely seem to care. Jealously, deceit, straight out evil on high display. The more naïve and trusting a character was the more bad fortune you had befall them. It’s as if you punish any hint of goodness and/or even modest decency. Blake Shelton might feel that, “The devil went down to Georgia, but he didn’t stick around,” but based on your work in Flannery O’Conner: The Complete Stories (1971), I’m not so sure. I suppose that the lupus jaded you to the core. It certainly took one of America’s greatest writers at the height of her talents. I will never forget your stories, although in truth, as a country bumpkin that you most certainly would have killed off, I would like to.
Alice Outwater: Water (1996) is technically the most remarkable explanation of our most important natural resource that I have ever read, and in order to at least appear well-informed, I have read a lot, at least where the environment is concerned. It wasn’t until you sent me a copy Wild at Heart (2019) that I came to realize that you studied engineering at MIT. Then, it all made sense, your analytical approach that is masked by your obvious affection for the creatures of this earth. I like that you see some silver linings in the same clouds where I see nothing but darkness and impending doom; and I hope and pray that you are right, and I am wrong. Since you continue to live on a farm that probably has horses (and even if it doesn’t) I’d like to say stay golden pony girl.
Camille Pagllia: You scare the living hell out of me. Some of your pieces are like a hideous car wreck that I just can’t look away from, although I know I need to before I wretch. Your aggression and honesty is like a shot to the gut. Well, so much for Vamps and Tramps (1994) and doubly so for Sexual Personae (1990). Sex! Sex!! Sex!!! And I thought that I was hormonally challenged. Not even. And, here again – aggressive. I wouldn’t engage in a game of tackle football against you, even if you paid me to. On a softer, gentler note, Break, Blow, Burn: Camille Pagllia Reads Forty-three of the World’s Best Poems (2005) is dazzling. It hit me like a full frontal intellectual lobotomy, and made me realize just how thin the ice I’m skating on really is. So you want to be a poet, do you, little Johnny? I do Camille, but, please don’t hurt me.
Sylvia Plath: First of all, my heart goes out to you, because I can’t think of anyone else who suffered more for their art. If ever there were two perfect poster children for star-crossed lovers, it would be you and Ted Hughes. When I wrote a brief biography concerning the two of you, I wanted you to know, that personally, I feel that you’re the better poet; although in fairness, he was no slouch. And though I do like your poetry, I like your prose much better, especially your short story Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams (1962). Although you passed in 1963, (no need to go into that ugly business here) you were awarded the Pulitzer Prize posthumously in 1982, and it was certainly well deserved. Your work lives on, and I would like to quote back to you your words as to the reason why:
I am not worried that poems reach relatively few people. As it is, they go surprisingly far – among strangers, around the world, even. Farther than the words of a classroom teacher or the prescriptions of a doctor; if they are very lucky, farther than a lifetime. (Radio interview 1962).
David Quammen: You’re the guy that really got me interested in environmentalism. I know, that being a landscape architect, that that should have been a foregone conclusion, but in truth, it wasn’t. Then I read The Song of the Dodo: Island Biogeography in an Age of Extinction (1996) and it was illuminating to the point where the light bulb came on in my uninformed head. So, thanks for that creative and career jolt – I’m truly indebted to you. I feel that Philip Gerard would tip his hat to you because you will go anywhere and endure any hardship to get the story and then write an inspired account about the journey and what it revealed. I can only imagine that as of today, January 8th, 2020, that you are weeping for Australia, the world’s largest island, although the cartographers credit it as being a continent. In terms of island biogeography, it represents the planet’s largest living laboratory and the most striking example of the theory of parallel evolution. California’s burning. Australia’s burning. Soon, the whole dam world will be burning. The loss of so many species is absolutely heartbreaking. and yet, the Mad King and his ilk still claim that all the evidence isn’t in on climate change. Speak of burning, there’s a special place in hell for the lot of them. May peace be bestowed upon you, if there’s any left in the world.
Janisse Ray: In this era of misplaced political correctness and WOKE snobbishness I find it endearing that you call yourself a cracker and are proud of it. Ecology of a Cracker Childhood (2000) crushed it and was certainly worthy of the American Book Award. Though it took me a while to notice it, the format of one chapter about family, followed by one chapter about nature, created a page turning flow, but the final chapter where you’re going out to replant Longleaf Pines really hit home with me. The sheer tenacity required to restore your own land with your bare hands is admirable. Now, California is in much need of restoration, and Australia, my God, what will become of Australia? Well, if nothing else, the Aussies are tough and will probably show us west coast Yanks how to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps. One can only hope. I like your honesty in Wild Card Quilt (2003), and I could relate to the passage about lonely you and a lonely friend going out to a bar on a weeknight simply because that was the only time that you could, even though the place was dead, and it made me think I’ve been there, I’ve done that. I appreciate that you respond when I write even though I suspect that you might think who is this weirdo from California? This weirdo merely appreciates your work, and I haven’t written lately, mostly because I have nothing significant to say and I don’t want to interfere with the next great thing you’re working on. I’ll be sure to send this piece along, however, and I hope you know that it’s because of the deepest respect for your immense talent.
D. Salinger: Catcher in the Rye (1951) came out the year I was born, but I wasn’t introduced to it until it was required reading in high school during my sophomore year in 1968. Already 17 years old even then, it is still a bestseller and somewhat a rite of passage for American teenagers today…well, the boys at least. However it’s Nine Stories (1951) that resonates more with me, especially A Perfect Day for Bannafish. I know what the critics say about you: “Long on emotion, and short on plot.” But why read any fiction if it doesn’t shake us up a little? Somehow, because of Nine Stories I developed an unhealthy fascination with the number 9. I wore it with pride on my basketball jersey, and every time I do a collection of pieces there have to be 9 of them. Lest anyone doubt, there are nine pieces contained in this work. Nine! Nine!! Nine!!! Hitler was less demented. I became immersed in Salinger: A Biography (1999) by Paul Alexander and feel he delivered a fair account. By the way, while I’m sorry that Charlie Chaplin stole your gal, you’re not the first guy to get dumped in favor of someone richer and more famous (at least he was at the time). I only mention this because I feel it sent you over the deep end and contributed mightily to your becoming a recluse later in life. If you had managed to get over that hump I personally believe that you would have given us some really great literature, but since you died in 2010, we will never know.
Carl Sandburg: As a son of the prairie living in the same state that gave the nation Abraham Lincoln it makes sense that you were fascinated with our greatest president and came to write Abraham Lincoln: The Prairie Years and The War Years (1926 and latest revision 1954) which won you the Pulitzer Prize in 1940. It gave me insights into the American Civil War and the deep divisions that existed within our nation in the 1860’s, and I must admit that I’m saddened that the heat of those divisions are on full display today, and largely along the same lines – race relations. Those nations who don’t learn from the negative lessons of their history are bound to repeat them. We are indeed living in tumultuous and perilous times. It’s your poetry that captures me the most, especially Billy Sunday included in Carl Sandburg: Selected Poems (1996) because its tone closely mirrors my feelings towards the snowflake WOKE crowd that is reigning condensation and condemnation down upon me. Today’s political correctness has run amok to the point that I’m reluctant to take a crap for fear of offending the toilet bowl. What I like the most about your poetry is that I can understand it unlike the offerings from the modern poetry crowd with their, “Take a guess as to what it all means, because I’m not really sure myself,” offerings. Doggerel meets mystery only equals nonsense, if you ask me. I am most appreciative that you went on record to say that it is the poet’s responsibility to chronicle the times in which she/he lives, and the Pulitzer Committee must have agreed because you were awarded two more prizes for your poetry in 1951. Today, nobody seems to remember who you were, so I wrote a biography entitled Carl Sandburg: An American Giant, and that you were my good man. As a reporter, you didn’t back down, unlike this fake news spewing rabble we now have. If you were alive today, you would have a field day exposing our Mad King, and I for one wish that you were. Rest well old poet.
Nicholas Schou: As far as I’m concerned, you are a journalist’s journalist. I was absolutely enthralled with your Orange Sunshine: The Brotherhood of Eternal Love and Its Quest to Spread Peace, Love, and Acid to the World (2010). What a great research effort. In truth, until then I wasn’t even aware that there was such a thing as The Brotherhood of Eternal Love, even though their mountain commune was located less than fifteen minutes from my home of the last 23 years.. The acid part of the equation didn’t personally interest me much, but I found the fact that The Brotherhood established a hash smuggling ring that transported product from Afghanistan to Southern California absolutely fascinating. This was all late ‘60’s early ‘70’s stuff, and I like to think that I may have smoked their hash in college; a hopeless romantic am I. Getting involved with egomaniacal Timothy Leary was the beginning of the end, and typical of most drug smuggling rings, they were eventually betrayed by one of their own. The only other writer that gives The Brotherhood their due is Robert Connell Clark PhD in his marvelous Hashish! (1998) where he states that they utilized the Old Hippy Hash Trails to navigate their way to Kandahar, Afghanistan, the local of the world’s best hash production. Daredevil men living an exciting lifestyle, these guys are my heroes. I want you to know Mr. Schou that your account deeply influenced me. Before I got chopped last fall, I planned on having, “The Brotherhood Lives” tee shirts made up just to stick it to the man, and if I could have laid hands on the FBI’s wanted poster for The Brotherhood’s members that Rolling Stone Magazine printed in their article about the “Hippy Mafia,” (1972) I would have put it on the back. Those plans are on hold for now, but as the corporations further continue to utilize legalization in Cali to bastardize weed in their own image and likeness, it is way past time for The Brotherhood to rise up and ride again.
Hunter S. Thompson: Dear Lord, where do I start? Well…yours’ was the last of my three author biographies that I wrote in Three American Originals, and it was definitely the wildest. The creator of “Gonzo journalism” nobody ever wrote like you, and it’s my considered opinion that nobody ever will. Your greatness explodes like firecrackers from the page. There, I’ve given you your due, but there are a few things that bother me; mostly your complete disregard for deadlines which are the lifeblood of responsible journalism, and the fact that you didn’t reject the “Dr.” title that most people attached at the front of your name, but not me. In my world, titles are earned and not given, and you were never a medical doctor or a PhD. With that off my chest, I will now say that, to me, The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved (Scanlan’s Monthly. vol. 1, no. 4, June 1970) is titanic and Hell’s Angels (1970) humbles me in its scope, brazenness, and truth. That you actually rode, drank, drugged, and partied with these outlaws for over a year gave you the street cred that lasted for the rest of your career. You were the biggest star and absolute best writer amongst Rolling Stone Magazine’s stable of incredible writers and you basked in that glory. Gone now from a suicide in 2005, Jann S. Wenner and Cory Seymour wrote Gonzo: The Life of Hunter S. Thompson (2007) in an attempt to immortalize you and they have come very close, but it seemed to me that each person interviewed tried to out Hunter the other person’s Hunter and perhaps the legend grew beyond the reality to god-like proportions. Given the material that they had to work with, however, I will at least concede that, perhaps I’m wrong on that account.
Susan Wooldridge: Kind woman. Whenever I write, you always write back, and it lifts me up that a poet of your stature takes the time. It’s flattering really, so I try not to abuse the privilege. Going into troubled areas to work with troubled kids, and teach them the magic of poetry is just about the nicest thing a person can do. Kudos to you, and Ann Lamont’s tribute is right on: “This is a wonderful book.” That, and then some, with a cherry on top. And the cover on Poem Crazy: Freeing Your Life with Words (1996) gets to me every time. My God, you really do look like you’re flying. Sometimes I wonder if you broke an ankle upon landing as high in the air as you were flashing those chunky heels. I certainly hope that you didn’t. Wildman sends you his best regards.
Some Final Words Concerning These Words
To be sure, there are many, many more writers that I could have profiled herein, and I certainly didn’t want to shortchange any of them. In actuality, those mentioned above were triggered from books still remaining in my bookcase. These 22 were chosen from a field of over 200 basically based on the mood I was in at the time. That’s the reward of reading for pleasure; you get to pick and choose as your interests dictate. I only bring this up because I have had many more books than these by an assortment of great authors that I now no longer have.
I sold my first collection of books, mostly old college landscape architecture texts and plant identification journals, in 1995 at the corner of Highway 74 and State Route 371 nestled in the mountains of Southern California on the occasion of once again going belly-up and in much need of jettisoning all but the most essential of possessions in order to acquire the meager funds necessary to survive. It was here that I meet a gaggle of shadow merchants and learned some lessons concerning self-preservation that have served me well through the years. Never an entity to ever allow anyone to make any money, unless their hands were firmly planted in the till, Riverside County shut down this crossroads of free enterprise and issued the edict that nobody would ever again be allowed to have any fun.
I gave away the bulk of my second collection of books to the local Anza High School, Library, and Historical Society in 2012 when I thought that my wife and I would be moving to Alabama, not that we wanted to, but we were desperate to escape the clutches of our drug addicted family. Much to my chagrin at that time, the whole plan fell through, although I must admit that it was a blessing in disguise because with the Mad King wrecking havoc upon our great land, liberal and free California, the epicenter of the resistance, is where I currently most want to be.
So that leaves this collection of books that I drew these scant ravings from. Know that I fully intend to give them away, also, because I’ve grown to believe that it’s selfish to hold on to them and let them gather dust when they could be doing immense good in the hands of other readers, especially the generation coming up. It’s estimated that magazines have a tenfold readership beyond the number of their actual subscribers because of the “pass along” effect, and I have to wonder: why not these books? I’m not as demented and callous as you may think because this is hard for me to do because these books are like my children, but you know what Sting had to say about loving something and setting it free. If you care to make the jaunt to Anza, California, you can have your pick – one book per future reader(s).
To reiterate; there are many, many more great writers that I could have delved into if only I had had the wherewithal. So many more…
