I'm not a writer. I say I'm one in the spirit of "Elinor agreed to it all because she didn't think he deserved the compliment of rational opposition" and because words are, at times, terribly imprecise.
Like you, I am a prolific reader and I write, but that doesn't make me a writer. I'm not compelled to write. I don't see it as a vocation. I don't like talking about writing, which I feel is highly subjective and mostly nonsense. I don't like the company of other writers just because they're writers, any more than I like the company of brunettes or Californians or professors just because I share those commonalities. If writing is all we have in common, it isn't enough. I like the company of thinkers whether they write or not.
Clyde's blue truck is parked in my drive. He's shoveled my walk, my back step and my drive. He's ringing my doorbell. He slams the door to his blue truck, upset because my car is in the drive and I don't answer. I don't have the cash to pay him right now, which I told him the last time he shoveled my walk, my back step and my drive.
Clyde counts not on the kindness of strangers, but on the kindness of those who know him. I've offered him food, but he won't take it. He wants to know someone loves him. He’s mentally disabled and he's alone in the world.
I am half-Jewish (father), but I was raised Christian. I always identified myself with Christianity. Until I stopped identifying myself with anything.
That changed when I came to New York City to live in 1975.
I was lucky. I arrived in New York at a time when the old Jewish culture was still alive. It wasn't nearly as vibrant as it was years earlier, but it was still there. I moved to East 10th Street, in the East Village, between Second and Third Avenues. On 12th Street and Second Avenue there was a Yiddish Theater. On Second Avenue and 10th Street was the incredible Second Avenue Deli. A mere three minutes from my apartment, this was my grammar school, my high school and my college for all things Jewish in New York City. It was probably the most famous Jewish deli in New York—neck and neck with Katz's—and was acknowledged to serve the best food.
My second detective novel featuring former LAPD homicide detective-turned yoga teacher Matt Bolster is blazing great paths in the yoga detective genre. This Bolster book is a really fun send-up of the ego-and-sex drenched California yoga scene. I hope you all take some time to check it out.
Author Fred Barnett says his life has been “nearly perfect.” He’s grateful, but thinking “nearly perfect” wasn’t good enough, Barnett decided to write an “action-packed, snappy ‘memoir’” that reads like Walter Mitty for the 21st century.
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