Description
This is the 14th yearly journal by San Francisco author Joseph Sutton that shows him on the cusp of fatherhood as he battles with himself to either stick to a unprofitable 11-year writing career or to choose another profession that brings security to his family.
Monday, January 7, 1980 – Here’s What’s Going On
The holiday season has just passed. I never ate, drank, and partied so much in my life. Crazy. It ruined my writing rhythm. On Christmas day Joan, Sol, Joan’s brother Jim, and I went to Joan’s mother’s condo and exchanged presents. Presents on Christmas for a Jewish family? Unspeakable. But I endured it. Presents. It’s like a Christian family celebrating a Jewish holiday.
Joan’s brother Jim has been staying with us since the holiday season began. He’s leaving tomorrow for Kansas City. We’ve walked a lot since he’s been here. But it’s tiring to hear all his doubts and insecurities. His self-esteem is very low. Joan tells me it’s always been that way.
On New Year’s day, USC defeated Ohio State 17-16 in the Rose Bowl, the Granddaddy of All Bowls. I love it when a Pacific Coast team beats a Big 10 team in the Rose Bowl.
Russian soldiers are in Afghanistan. China and the U.S. are sending arms to Pakistan to fend off any Russian invasion. The Ayatollah Khomeini is still holding 52 American hostages at the U.S. Embassy in Iran. The world is crumbling. But goddammit, I ain’t gonna let it spoil my life. [Note: The American hostages were eventually released on January 20, 1981, the day Ronald Reagan was inaugurated in his first term as president.]
This week I’m working on a short story called “Curve Ball.” It’s about when I struck out five times in a game against our crosstown rival Hollywood High. The day before my five-strikeout game, I got hit in the head by a curve ball in batting practice. Those were the days before batting helmets were a part of the game. The next day against Hollywood High, it seemed like their pitcher was throwing curves on every pitch, which made me fear every pitch thrown. That fatal day ended my baseball career at Fairfax High.
Last night I blew up at my 9-year-old stepson Sol for getting sick. “You have to take care of yourself!” I told him. “You have to listen to us when we tell you to put a coat on when you go outside in cold weather! We don’t need you getting sick! Do you hear?” I got mad because I was tired and frustrated—tired from not sleeping well and frustrated that all I get are rejections for my writing. I feel bad that I let it out on Sol, the poor kid.
Monday, January 14, 1980 – To Keep on Pushing
I finished “Curve Ball.” The main character, Joe Krevsky, didn’t end his high school baseball career after striking out five times, unlike what happened to me in real life . No siree, it took Joe Krevsky a while, with the help of Coach Savern, to get over his fear of curves, and when he did, he was back to his old-self again.
My next story is going to be about my second meeting with William Saroyan. All it takes is to push myself to sit down and concentrate on what I want to say. And because of that, a new story, like a woman giving birth, is pushed out into the world.
Monday, January 21, 1980 – William Saroyan
The Pittsburgh Steelers defeated the Los Angeles Rams 31-19 in the Super Bowl yesterday. Since I grew up in L.A., the Rams were my team until I moved to San Francisco in 1977. I’m now a fervent San Francisco fan in all sports.
Mayor Diane Feinstein married Richard Blum yesterday. They were married by Rabbi Martin Weiner, the rabbi who married Joan and me three months ago in his office.
I got most of Saroyan #2 done last week. Saroyan #1 was published in Writer’s Digest last year when I knocked on his door in Fresno in 1977. Saroyan #2 is about our bumping into each other earlier this year at the 22nd Avenue & Irving Market in the Sunset District. [Note: Both Saroyan stories, “Stopover in Fresno” and “Saroyan Again—A Chance Meeting” (published in Writer’s Digest in 1994) were also published in my story collection The Immortal Mouth and Other Stories in 2003.]
Tuesday, January 22, 1980 – People as a Whole Are Beautiful
I subbed for the first time during the school year today for typing teacher Judie Kline at Potrero Hill Middle School. Joyce Temoche, the secretary at Potrero Hill, called me yesterday, got me in a weak state of mind, and talked me into subbing for Judie today.
Life is something else. I should savor every minute. The students were beautiful today. My wife is beautiful. Sol is beautiful. The teachers I know at Potrero Hill are beautiful. People as a whole are beautiful.
Wednesday, January 23, 1980 – To Keep Writing or Not
Last night I got into a heated argument with Joan. She wants me to quit writing and start teaching. My reaction was to swear and yell and storm out of the house.
While walking to the beach and back, I kept asking myself, “What should I do? I keep getting rejected by magazines and book publishers. Except for selling a measly seven stories to magazines in 10 years, everything else I’ve written has been rejected. Should I keep writing or should I go back to teaching?” That’s what kept going through my mind on that four-mile walk.
So why do I keep writing? I write because I feel a great need to express my ideas, my feelings, my philosophy, my thoughts. I have to write. There’s nothing else I want to do in life.
Monday, January 28, 1980 – Doubts about Being a Writer
There have been three big earthquakes in the last four days: 5.5, 5.6, and 5.2 on the Richter Scale. All about 40 miles east of San Francisco in the Livermore area. There’s atomic material at the Lawrence Livermore Radiation Lab and they had some damage on the first quake. Scary.
I’ve been feeling weak since I fought with Joan last week. I wonder if it’s psychological. Joan, like me, is frustrated because I can’t get published. I defended my sticking to writing with her, but after 10 1/2 years without getting much published, I’m starting to doubt if I’m a writer.
Wednesday, January 30, 1980 – Torn Down
This has been one of the roughest months of my life. I’ve been sick, it seems, most of the month. The past couple of nights I’ve had a bad cough. Today I had laryngitis.
I got torn down after reading my “Curve Ball” story last night at the San Francisco Writer’s Workshop. Dean Lipton, the leader of the Workshop that meets at the Main Library once a week, said, “There’s not enough meat to the story, Joe.” Others picked up on Dean’s criticism. “Your story is too lean. It needs to be fattened.” “It’s like an outline for a story.” “You need to thicken it and make it more authentic.”
I can’t win in this world.
Tuesday, February 5, 1980 – I’m Mad
I haven’t written in a week. I’m feeling very low about my writing. I’ll break out of it, though, when I get my strength back and start working out regularly. I don’t think I’ve gone swimming in a whole month.
I wish writing would come easy to me. I wish that everything I write in a first draft would be the final draft. I wish I had the determination to write a final draft every day like Saroyan. He didn’t seek perfection. His only goal was to finish a piece of writing at the end of the day.
What if I were to sit down and write a story right now, what would it be about? Whenever I think of a story, I tighten up. I think of the rules of writing. I think of the tradition of short story writers. It puts brakes on my imagination. I become ordinary instead of unique. In my opinion, Saroyan is the best short story writer there is. He never followed the rules and still doesn’t follow them. I know exactly how he felt in writing his early short stories. He, like me, was frustrated of not getting his work published. He wanted to break down those walls that editors hide behind. He was pissed off at editors for not accepting his work. I feel the same way. Why aren’t my stories getting published? Is it that I have nothing to say? Is it that I have no talent? All I know is, I’m mad. I want to break down that wall that’s preventing me from getting published.
Wednesday, February 6, 1980 – The Paddle
I need to write down the gist of Paul Jung’s story that he told me yesterday.
Paul lives across the street from me. He and his friend Dmitri went fishing in Dmitri’s boat twice. The first time they ran out of gas, the second time they almost lost their lives and struggled to stay alive in a storm off the coast. Their first time out, Paul noticed there wasn’t any safety equipment on Dmitri’s boat and so they just sat there and fished in the fog as they waited for help. Luckily, help came. The second time they again ran out of gas coming back from the Farallon Islands (30 miles west of the Golden Gate). It was a nice day when they started out in Dmitri’s small 18-foot boat, but a heavy storm started up as they were returning. “Why did I get myself into this again?” Paul kept saying to himself. “No gas and now it’s raining. No safety equipment except a 4-foot paddle. No radio to call for help. And now Dmitri’s drunk. Why did I let myself go out with him?” All they can do in the freezing rain is wait for help. “We’re soaked. Then I saw rocky cliffs ahead of me. Oh my God, we’re going to crash. I reach for the paddle and start paddling. One side, then the other. One side, then the other. I want to live. Dmitri is drunk. He’s laughing. He doesn’t know what’s happening. I don’t want to die. I have a beautiful wife. How stupid of me to go out again with him with no safety equipment on board.”
Paul is a former Olympic wrestler from Czechoslovakia. Today he inspects houses for real estate agents. He jogs, lifts weights, and loves to fish. This is the story of a strong, determined man who paddled, paddled, and paddled Dmitri’s boat to safety in a storm. The boat eventually washed up around three in the morning north of the Golden Gate at Stinson Beach. Two cops from the Sheriff’s Department drove them to Dmitri’s car that was parked on the Marin side of the Golden Gate.
Paul, after a restless sleep, called Dmitri’s house later that day. His wife answered the phone and Paul asked if he could speak to Dmitri. She said, “Dmitri is no longer here.” “What do you mean he’s no longer there? Where did he go?” “An awful thing happened.” “If it’s his boat he’s worried about, I want to help him get it off the beach.” “No, no,” she said, “Dmitri is no longer here.” “What do you mean he’s no longer there? I just dropped him off this morning!” She said, “Dmitri shot himself.” [Note: I wrote a much longer version of Paul Jung’s story and called it “Paul Milochek’s Struggle with His Friend Dmitri and the Sea.” It was published in 2003 in The Immortal Mouth and Other Stories and in 2019 in In the Time of My Life: Selected Writings.]
Friday, February 22, 1980 – Miracle on Ice
The young, underdog U.S. hockey team in the Winter Olympics at Lake Placid, New York, just accomplished a major upset against the Soviet Union. You could feel the emotion of the game—the strain, the grit, the toughness of it. What a game to remember! The Americans, not as talented as the Soviets, won by a score of 4-3. Every second counted. Every effort counted. It was a truly a spectacular win. The Americans were a determined team. They would have laid their lives on the line to win that game. It was like a war on ice. The funny thing is, it was the cleanest hockey game I’ve ever seen. As the clock wound down, announcer Al Michaels exclaimed, “Do you believe in miracles? YES!” [Note: Two days later the U.S. team defeated Finland 4-2 to win the Gold Medal.]
Saturday, February 23, 1980 – Let’s Have a Baby
A little while ago I decided that, yes, Joan and I are going to have a baby. It came to me while I was washing the dishes. Everything just fell into place. I’ve been thinking about it for over a week now. I had till March 4th to make my decision because Joan is going to the gynecologist to have a checkup. She might as well have her I.U.D. removed since she’s been talking about removing it for her health. Well, last week she got the notion that she felt it would do us good, in the long run, to have a baby. She was serious. She said she’d love to have a strong, beautiful, curly-haired baby. (Both of us have curly hair.) So I started thinking about it, and just as I was finishing the dishes, I decided that I’m going to be a strong father, one who has a positive attitude of the future and one who has faith in himself and his wife.
Friday, March 21, 1980 – Whose Fault Is It?
I’ve been a counselor at Potrero Hill Middle School for the past four weeks. It’s taken every ounce of energy out of me. It’s a job that makes me actually hate students. I don’t have a minute to myself. Every second is taken up by a student who wants my attention for one reason or another. It’s either a student who wants to go home or is sick or wants to drop a class or needs a pencil or wants a hall pass or it’s talking to a student about not cutting class or it’s about a student’s behavior in class. The majority of students are fine and beautiful. It’s that small percentage who make it rough on their fellow students, teachers, and administrators. It’s hell. I dread going to school. I stayed home yesterday and today because I’ve been sick. This is the first time in a month I’ve had a chance to sit down and write, something I would like to do for the remainder of my life. School is so depressing. Boys and girls roving around the campus instead of being in class. It’s a madhouse. Whose fault is it? The students? Their parents? The teachers? I really don’t know the answer. I can’t do a good job because students are constantly pestering me. I’m tired and sick is all I can say. I was not made to be interrupted every second by uncivilized students who have no respect for anyone or anything. School, to them, is to break every rule possible by testing the nerves and limits of those who are trying to teach them. I’m wasting my energy on students who are intent on making trouble. If only they could understand what they’re doing.
Either I stick it out for another 14 weeks, get another job, or sit down and write. I’ve lost my touch for writing, but if I sit down and stick to it, I can gain it back. That’s why I’m writing now—to get my hand-eye coordination back. Should I revise A Class of Leaders? Should I finish short stories that need revision? Should I write more short stories? Those are the choices I have.
Sunday, March 23, 1980 – I’m a Writer
I’m alive and well. I wrote my last entry when I was in a very weak state of mind and my throat was killing me. I’m going back to school tomorrow. I’ll just have to pace myself by not taking things so seriously.
I have A Class of Leaders to revise. I have 15 to 20 short stories to revise and finish. I have letters to write. No doubt about it, first and foremost, I’m a writer.
Tuesday, April 1, 1980 – The Day I Fell In Love
It’s April Fool’s Day. This is the day, three years ago, that Joan and I went on our first date and fell in love. We’re now married and thinking of having a child. Change, change, constant change—although it doesn’t seem as if things are changing.
It’s hay fever season. I wish I knew why my nose runs so damn much. My eyes seem to have “pebbles” in them all the time.
I’ve been very lazy since Spring Vacation began. I deserve feeling this way because I’ve been working my ass off at school. I’ve gotten up very late since vacation began. Here it is 1:30 p.m. and I just finished eating breakfast.
I have many little things to do—laundry, taking bottles and cans to the recycling center next door to Golden Gate Park, buying a dresser for the baby, putting an ad in the Advertiser for a garage sale we’re going to have, writing letters, and thinking about revising A Class of Leaders. An agent in New York says she’d be interested if I revise it. I hope when summer comes I’ll have the will to do it.
Tuesday, May 20, 1980 – The Plight of a Stepfather
I got into a very violent argument with Joan this morning. It had to do with Sol. He argues about the least little thing I ask him, and so I just couldn’t take it any longer. “I’m not taking you to the Giants game tonight, Sol. If you want to argue and waste energy with me all the time, then I’m not going to the game.” Joan, as usual came to his defense. She’s been subverting my standing with Sol for three years. She doesn’t trust the way I treat him. That’s the situation I’m in and it’s frustrating as all hell for me as a stepfather.
Why did I get mad at Sol? The portable radio that belongs in the bathroom was in Joan’s car. Sol took it and left it there three days ago. I asked him to bring the radio back. He didn’t do it. I asked him a few more times and he still didn’t bring it back. He just won’t listen to me. I have to tell him a lot of things because Joan refuses to or is blind to the fact that he doesn’t sit straight at the dinner table, that he doesn’t eat any vegetables, that he doesn’t wash his face, , that he doesn’t brush his teeth, that he needs to fix his bed in the morning, that he needs to take the garbage out once a week. She doesn’t notice a quarter of these things for a boy to be normal, healthy, and unspoiled.
So, as it turns out, Sol is always tired, lazy, smelly, and doesn’t eat enough vegetables. “Oh, don’t give him so much, Joe,” Joan tells me every night. In other words, she doesn’t want him to like vegetables or is making it so that he won’t like them. He’s always tired. If I ask him to wash the dinner dishes at night he’ll argue with me for 10 minutes. So who ends up washing the dishes? Good old Joe. Sol, 9-years-old, is learning that he doesn’t have to do anything around the house because good old reliable Joe will do it for him.
So I told him I couldn’t stand it any longer and that I wasn’t going to take him to the baseball game. Joan argued with me and then she started hitting me and throwing things at me. I would never hit her, but I grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her down to the floor. That’s how violent it became.
She thinks I’m too demanding. “Sol, do this.” “Sol, do that.” She thinks it’s ruining his health and mind. Me, I feel like an outsider in my own house. That’s why I’m not going to the game tonight. That’s why I’ll have to let things flow better. That’s why I’ll have to cut down on my demands. But so help me God, if there’s no change on Sol’s part, I’m leaving this fucking house for good.
Saturday, June 7, 1980 – Joan is Pregnant
It’s Saturday night at 1586-21st Avenue. Joan and I made up after my last entry. Sol has been much better. On the whole, everything’s going well.
It seems that Joan is pregnant and she’s been tired the last two days. She stayed in bed till 2:00 p.m. today. Last week she got very sick at nighttime. Stomach problems.
Sunday, June 15, 1980 – School Almost Over
On Friday the 13th Joan informed me that I will be a father in seven or eight months. I was overjoyed. The only thing is, I have to make some good money from here on out. How am I going to do that? Of course I’d like to support my family by writing. I’ll have to write my ass off this summer is what I’ll do. So I’m going to be a father for the first time and Joan a mother for the second time. Sol will have a real brother or sister.
School will be over soon. Two days after it’s over, Joan and I will be heading north for Portland, Oregon, for a two-week vacation—tenting it, wood fires, teamwork. That’s why we like camping out. Teamwork. Sol will be staying with his father Ramon Sender and Ramon’s wife Tova in Sonoma County.
Sunday, June 29, 1980 – The Redwoods
Our first two days of this vacation were spent at Orr Mineral Hot Springs, 10 miles west of Ukiah. We spent two lazy days soaking in mineral bathtubs. The flies got to be too much for me. I didn’t get out into the sun much.
Joan and I are now at Hidden Springs Campground in the redwoods, on the Avenue of the Giants. A hell of a lot of mosquitoes. We’re at a nice campsite, except we’re next to a couple who just arrived and can’t agree on anything. Argue, argue, argue is all they’re doing. Things will get better with them, I hope, after they finish setting up camp. I’m sitting under a grove of redwoods that are at least 1,500 years old. They’re tall and strong, red and green, and their bark is as craggy as an old fisherman’s face.
The Redwoods
Stand tall and quiet, you Redwoods
Stand strong and firm
You are a silence heard ’round the world
Hail to thee, you Redwoods
You stand for America when she wants to be America
You stand for Whitman, Lincoln, Paine, and Jefferson
You stand for the Bambino, Gershwin, Coppola
Caesar Chavez, and Jackie Robinson
Stand tall and quiet, you Redwoods
People know how to treat you
Stand strong and firm, you Redwoods
You know how to treat people
Monday, June 30, 1980- Chipmunks
The couple who tented next to us were noisy as hell last night. Luckily 100 feet separated us. They’re getting along much better this morning.
While Joan and I were eating breakfast, a group of small chipmunks with stripes on their heads and backs came foraging for food. They aren’t stupid, those little creatures, because they know campers are going to feed them with bread, crackers, or nuts. There were around five or six of them who have scoured every inch of our campsite.
There were no mosquitoes this morning. It’s been very quiet except for logging trucks rumbling along 3/4 of a mile away on Highway 101.
Two hours later.
Joan and I are at a beautiful Eel River beach—a very peaceful setting. It’s hot. The river is quiet and cool. Joan loves swimming in it. I can’t go swimming today because my right ear is sore. I cup my hands and splash myself every so often to cool off.
Tuesday, July 1, 1980 – Big Lagoon
After eating our third annual fish dinner at Weatherby’s Seafood Restaurant in Eureka last night, we found a campsite called Big Lagoon, about 30 miles north of Eureka. It was a big, quiet campsite, all for $2. We found driftwood on the beach to make a fire last night and this morning. The only setback, like the mosquitoes and noisy neighbors at Hidden Springs, was the dampness of the place.
Right now we’re near the Bandon Sand Dunes in Oregon. I just realized that Joan and I have not left each other’s sight in five days. But those five days have gone by very fast. We haven’t talked to many people at all.
Wednesday, July 2, 1980 – Names for Our Daughter or Son
We stayed at Sunset Bay Campsite near Charleston, Oregon, last night. The flaw of that campsite was too many people, mainly teenagers, who made noise well into the night.
It was unexpectedly hot last night. Before going to bed, we drove into Charleston to Red’s Tavern, where a pitcher of beer was only a dollar. I gambled a little at the Blackjack table and lost $10. The woman dealer, in the 10 minutes I played, had four blackjacks! It’s time to quit when either she’s that hot or is maybe cheating.
Right now we’re several miles north and east of Lincoln City. This is just the opposite of the Sunset Bay Campsite last night. It’s very quiet. There are only two other couples at this campground called Neskowin Creek.
We figured out a name for our future daughter. Jeanine, which is close to my mother’s name of Jeannette. If it’s a boy, his name will be Raymond, after my father. It’s a Syrian Jewish tradition to name the first born after the father’s father or mother. Joan is willing to go along with this tradition that’s been going on for centuries.
Wednesday, July 9, 1980 – My Friend Steve Carey
From Neskowin Creek we zoomed 90 miles into Portland and stayed with our friends Steve Carey and Leah Shearin for five days.
Our first night in Portland, the four of us went to Stanich’s and ordered their famous, monstrous burger that consisted of bacon, ham, cheese, egg, onion, lettuce, and tomato. A lot of cholesterol there. On July 4th we ate dinner at Steve and Leah’s friend’s house, Myles Gordon. Myles and his date had corn, salad, hot dogs, and beer, beer, beer. The six of us went to see a little of Americana and fireworks at Oaks Amusement Park in Southeast Portland. We didn’t stay long because it was very noisy. Steve and I found $14 on the ground and used it to eat breakfast the next morning at the Original Pancake House on Barbur Boulevard.
The four of us, before going to the Pancake House, watched the Wimbledon match between John McEnroe and Björn Borg, which turned out to be one of the most exciting matches in Wimbledon history. The tense, nervous, exciting part was the tiebreaker that went on for 30 serves. Borg came out the winner.
Joan and I then drove to Washington Park to enjoy Portland’s famous Rose Garden. Most of our next day was spent at Powell’s Books. Powell’s is now the biggest bookstore in all of the U.S., taking up a whole city block. When I lived in Portland in the mid-’70s, I worked a short time for a weekly newspaper, The Downtowner, and interviewed the owner of Powell’s, Walter Powell. After the interview he asked who my favorite author was. “William Saroyan,” I said. Mr. Powell then led me into the bookstacks and presented me with two books by William Saroyan.
The next night the four of us went to a party at Mary McCaleb’s and Karl Lingenfelder’s house that they and Lenore Kaattari threw just for Joan and me. At the party were my Portland poet friends Penny Avila, Sid Lyman, Lloyd Nelson, B.J. Seymour, and Kay Reid. Several more friends of mine were there, like Dave and Andrea Graham.
Dave and Andrea invited the four of us to their house for a champagne brunch the next day. One of the great omelets of all time was made by Dave Graham.
Steve and I spent a lot of time together, as did Joan with Leah. Steve and I went jogging one morning and bike riding the next. That’s Steve for you—the best playmate I ever had. We were next-door neighbors in Eugene, Oregon, nine years ago, when he was finishing off his Ph.D. in Philosophy at the University of Oregon and I was finishing off my first novel, A Class of Leaders. We did a lot together in Eugene. We played tennis, threw the frisbee around, played chess, kicked and threw the football around, and drank beer at different taverns, the main one being Max’s Tavern, not far from the University. That’s why we’ve visited Steve and Leah for the past three years, so I could play with my friend Steve and talk about everything under the sun with him, like philosophy (he teaches philosophy at Portland Community College), politics, movies, books, and sports.
Yesterday we drove all day to stay at a private campsite just south of Mt. Shasta for $5. We got in, set up camp, ate a small meal, and went to bed. We woke up around 7 a.m. today and drove to Wilbur Hot Springs to find they were closed on Wednesday to clean the mineral baths. So we’re now at Cache Creek Campground, 16 miles south of Wilbur. We spent the whole day sunning ourselves on a little beach next to the Cache Creek River. Tomorrow we’ll spend the day at Wilbur and head home tomorrow night.
Sunday, July 13, 1980 – Campgrounds
Vacation 1980. People lived up to what you can expect at campgrounds, that you can’t get away from those who refuse to think of others. One of the few quiet night’s we had was the first night at Orr Hot Springs. The second night, a few people started singing right next to our tent. The third night a young couple in the Redwoods couldn’t stop arguing and talking well into the night. The fourth night, at Big Lagoon, was a rare night of quiet. Fifth night—Sunset Bay Campground near Charleston, where it was like a city at night with teenagers riding their bikes and scooters and the adults watching TV. Our sixth night at Neskowin Creek was quiet. Nights seven through eleven were spent at Steve and Leah’s house. On night 12, at Railroad Park just south of Dunsmuir, two motorcyclists played their radio and talked loudly most of the night. Night 13 at Cache Creek, a gang of he-men stayed up all night drinking and joking. You just can’t get away from noise in this world. There’s always that small percentage who make it hard on others.
Monday, July 14, 1980 – Write According to One’s Own Integrity
Rollo May writes in Man’s Search for Himself on page 231 of the paperback:
“A modern English author describes how he endeavored for years to write by following conventional methods: ‘I thought I could write to formula,’ as he put it; and during those years he plodded along at a mediocre level. But during the war, he continued, ‘I found out why I had not been published before….When we were all thinking we might die the next day, I decided to write what I wanted.’
“When we point out, as actually happened, that his writing became successful, some persons might interpret the illustration with a conventional success moral, ‘If you wish to be successful, write what you want.’ But such a moral, of course, entirely misses the point. The author’s previous need to write according to external standards and for ulterior purposes—success being the chief one in our day—was exactly what was blocking him in tapping his qualities and powers as a writer. And it was precisely this need that he gave up at the time of facing death. If one may die tomorrow, why knock one’s self out trying to fit this standard or that formula? Assuming that success and rewards might be achieved by writing to formula—which is a toss-up in any case—one may not be around long enough anyway to enjoy the rewards, so why not treat one’s self to the joy at the moment of writing according to one’s own integrity?”
Wednesday, July 16, 1980 – Let It Flow
This is the third day I’ve come downstairs to my study and have not yet started revising my teacher novel A Class of Leaders that I promised myself to do, a novel I “finished” eight years ago in Eugene, Oregon.
Oh, how I long to write short stories. To write freely and flowing is my goal in life, and not hesitate and say to myself, “Is this what people will like?” I can’t let myself say that. I’ll just have to let the subconscious and conscious work together, à la Saroyan and Kerouac. As Rollo May wrote, “Write according to one’s own integrity.”
Thursday, July 17, 1980 – Getting Into a Habit
I’ve been inside most of the day reading and dozing off while reading. It’s cold outside. These damn “summers” in the western part of San Francisco are like “winters”— overcast and foggy for two or three months with intermittent sunny days thrown in.
I wake up around 7 a.m. with my pregnant wife. I do my stretching exercises, then shower and shave. It’s 8 a.m. and Joan’s ready to go to her legal secretarial job at Morrison Foerster, otherwise known as MoFo. We get into my car and I drive two long blocks to Judah Street so she can catch the N Judah streetcar going downtown.
That’s how it’s been going since we got home from our vacation. I’m getting into a rhythm of coming downstairs to my basement study at the same time every day. I’m getting to work in the morning and going out in the afternoon for either a walk, to go shopping, or run errands.
Monday, July 21, 1980 – What Does the Future Hold?
I am a writer who, in seven months, will be a father. I love writing when my writing is going well, but it’s not often that that happens. You see, now that I’m on the brink of being a father, I’ve started thinking of other ways to make a living. Why? Because in 11 years as a writer I’ve made about $500 working at a weekly paper in Portland and selling seven short stories. Some people make that much in a day or week. I sometimes think that I should maybe go back to teaching or get a job reading meters for the gas company or water company. But I like writing. I’m writing now. It’s flowing. So how am I going to support my wife, my 9-year-old stepson, and our new baby when the time comes?
I have to write according to my own integrity and not according to the latest fads, formulas, or conventions. To do so means it will have to come from my gut, from my own unique and original voice. It will be Suttonese and not Saroyanesque or Kerouacian. It will come from my heart and not what I think other people want to read or hear.
One part of me is afraid, while another part of me is excited to find out what the future holds. What will I be doing six months from now? Writing? Teaching? Reading meters?
Wednesday, July 23, 1980 – Shocking News
Yesterday, in the early afternoon, I received some shocking news. We’re going to have to move out of our house. It has nothing to do with us being bad tenants. We rarely bothered our landlady, Barbara Hallgren. She says the apartment building she lives in is going to be put up for sale and was given notice to move. She told me that she looked at a couple of apartments in her neighborhood and they were smaller than her present apartment and more expensive. She’s decided she’s going to move into the house she’s renting to us instead. Something seems a little fishy about this, but I’ll have to take her word for it. The reason why I think she’s not telling us the truth is because she knows she can rent this house for more, much more than raising it a legal 7% per year. Joan cried when I told her.
All I had on my mind today was to find a place to put my family in 60 days or less. I went down every street in the Sunset District from 21st Avenue to 33rd Avenue, and from Noriega to Lincoln. I covered quite a bit of territory on my moped. I passed by several houses that had “For Rent” signs showing. I called them when I got home, and the price range was from $550-$700. Right now we’re paying $350 a month.
What does it feel like to hear you have to move out of the house you’re renting? Shock. Numbness. It’s like when I heard President Kennedy was assassinated in 1963. Disbelief. That’s what it feels like after you’ve done your best to be a good tenant. You never bother the landlady. You pay your rent on time. You keep the house in good shape. What more could she ask for?
Money. That’s what she wants. Should we offer to pay more? The thing is, it could happen again—her telling us to move. Greed is the word. Pure, unadulterated greed.
Saturday, July 26, 1980 – A Duplex for $550
We found another place, a duplex on 17th Avenue, between Judah and Kirkham—1433-17th Avenue (four blocks from where we’re living now). We put down a $50 deposit and I’m to deliver our application to Wiener and Associates Realty tomorrow.
We found a place we liked and we hope we’ll be happy there. There’s more room to move around at the duplex but there’s no place like a house. Change is coming—home, baby, job.
An agent showed me the duplex yesterday. She first took me to a house that was renting for $600, which turned out to be a piece of crap. Then she showed me the duplex for $550, which was twice the size and quality of the house she showed me. I told her I wanted Joan to see it before we decided. And today, as I predicted, Joan saw it and liked it.
Tuesday, August 12, 1980 – Moving is Hell
We moved on Saturday, August 2. Moving is hell. Pack boxes, carry boxes, finding places to unpack boxes, cleaning the old place, cleaning the new place. Yes, moving is hell. It makes for sore arms and a sore back. There’s one consolation, though. You sleep well from all that physical activity.
I’m going to be a father. When Joan heard the baby’s heartbeat at the doctor’s office yesterday she broke into tears she was so happy. A father is one who has to be responsible, strong, a leader, a teacher, and mainly he has to love his child.
Wednesday, August 13, 1980 – Vocal Chords
In exactly one week I’ll be 40-years-old. I have no recollection at all of my first, second, or third years on Earth. I don’t remember Brooklyn, New York, where I was born, nor do I remember moving to Hollywood when I was a year-and-a-half. I was walking and talking in my second and third years but have not one iota of memory of that time.
I know that my mother, who gave birth to seven children (six boys and one girl, the girl, Luna, dying at age five), left me alone quite a bit after my birth. The story goes that she didn’t like me at the beginning of my life because I was a boy. She wanted a girl so badly because she had lost her only girl to pneumonia in 1934. She already had two boys when Luna died, Charles and David, then along came Bob in 1935, Maurice in 1937, and me in 1940. In 1949 she gave birth to Albert in Los Angeles. My mother wouldn’t have had me if she didn’t want to try for a girl. And so there I was, born an unwanted child. If I needed something from my mother I would have to really use my vocal chords.
I’m reminded of our “quiet” little hamster named Jack. The other night I was closing the kitchen door when all of a sudden I heard a loud squeak. It was Jack Hamster caught under the door. He has free reign of the front part of our duplex. Little Jack made one of his loudest yelps ever. When I heard him, I immediately stopped closing the door. If I had closed it any further, he would have been squished to death. He yelped when he had to. I too yelped after I was born. I must have yelped louder than most babies, for why do I have such a strong voice today? Early training is why.
I’ve heard my mother many times over the years tell a semblance of this story that I’m now about to relate:
Jeannette Sutton, 32, was married to Raymond Sutton, 40, a retail linen shop owner in Manhattan. They’d been married almost 14 years when their fifth son Joseph was born. Jeannette had had a girl who died at the age of five of pneumonia. Jeannette, soon after her daughter’s death, gave birth to boy #3, Bob. A year-and-a-half later she gave birth to boy #4, Maurice. She wanted a girl so badly that she gave birth to Joseph, boy #5, on August 20, 1940.
She didn’t like Joseph because he was a boy. She didn’t tell anyone about her indifference toward him. She thought of her girl Luna, so beautiful and behaved, so delicate and smart. “Luna, my baby, why did you have to leave me? If only Joseph was born a girl. I won’t care for him as I’ve done for all my children. If only I would have known he was going to be a boy I would have talked to my doctor about an abortion. But now that he’s here, he’s going to have to take care of himself more than my other boys.”
One day Jeannette left Joseph sleeping in the middle of her and her husband’s double bed upstairs. It was the middle of October. Joseph woke up on his back. He was cold, hungry for milk, and he needed his diaper changed. He cried hard for his mother’s attention. Jeannette, cooking downstairs, heard her son. “He can wait till I’m finished preparing dinner.”
Joseph was so much in need of attention that he started rocking and squirming on the bedspread. In his fury he somehow turned over on his belly. He started kicking his legs. He cried and cried and cried. He was so caught up in trying to get his mother’s attention, her love, that he was now near the edge of the bed. He cried louder than ever before. “Why won’t she listen to me? I know she’s unhappy I’m a boy, but so what? I’m only two-months-old. I need her breast, her warmth, her love. Please listen to me, Mother. Don’t dislike me. It’s not my fault I’m a boy. Don’t hate me. I’m helpless now, but don’t worry, I won’t be helpless for long. I’ll grow up faster than you or anyone ever imagined. But right now I need your milk and my diaper changed. Come to me, Mother! Come to me!” he cried as he fell headfirst to the wooden floor below. Many seconds passed in total silence. Joseph then burst out with his loudest cry ever. Jeannette Sutton ran upstairs. As she entered her bedroom, she didn’t see or hear her son. Then, a most chilling cry came from the other side of the bed. Joseph was beet red with rage when she picked him up and cuddled him. She hugged him and kissed him and swore that this would never happen again. She realized how much he had craved her love, how much he had fought for it, that she loved him with all her heart from that moment on.
Friday, August 15, 1980 – Bocce Ball and Mr. Zen Gets His Screw
My friend and fellow writer Robert Girard and I went for a long walk the other day and we came across a bunch of old men playing Bocce Ball near Fisherman’s Wharf. We stopped and watched and figured out the goal of the game, which is to roll your team’s four bocce balls closer to a smaller ball than the other team’s four bocce balls. Everyone playing was speaking Italian. The game we watched was close and exciting. It gave Robert the idea of making a film with opera music playing in the background and having a sportscaster describing the action.
“Mr. Zen Gets His Screw” is a short story I’m thinking of writing, about my night in Grass Valley last summer when I visited my old high school friend Stan Lipkin, who threw a party for his friends, most of whom were into yoga and vegetarian food. I met a man who called himself Mr. Zen, who seemed very peaceful and righteous about what he ate and his belief of peace on Earth and not giving anyone any trouble in his life. According to him, he was a true Zen master. And so, as bedtime approached, all 15 of us found a place on the floor in our sleeping bags in Stan Lipkin’s one-room cabin located next to a lake. I happened to be lying next to Mr. Zen and a woman, both of whom were preventing me from sleeping. Why? Because Mr. Zen wouldn’t stop trying to get into the pants of this woman who kept telling him, “No, not now, I’m tired. Leave me alone,” and him telling her calmly over and over again, “Don’t worry, everything will be all right.” Their whispering back and forth made me speak up a couple of times, “Will you two be quiet.” I would have moved to another place on the floor, but every inch was already taken. Mr. Zen was determined to get this woman to screw him, and yes, he finally accomplished what he set out to do—right next to me. And I’m thinking what a hypocrite this Mr. Zen is. He’s not thinking of anyone but himself, and he calls himself Mr. Zen, a person who wouldn’t harm a fly, a person who wouldn’t eat meat of any kind, a person of peace, but a person, it turned out, who wouldn’t take “No” for an answer until he got what he wanted.
Thursday, August 21, 1980 – My 40th Birthday
Joan and Sol gave me a wallet and shirt for my 40th birthday last night. I also received a $25 check in the mail from my mother in L.A. We had my friend Alan Blum over to dinner. He gave me two tickets to any Giants game I wanted to attend. We had roasted chicken and vegetables, baked potatoes, salad, wine, all topped off with ice cream and poppyseed cake from Just Desserts.
Monday, August 25, 1980 – I’m in Limbo
It’s another cold summer day in the western part of San Francisco. The only consolation is, there’s no smog.
Joan and I went to the hospital last week to find out the results of her amniocenteses. It’s a test where they take fluid from the placenta, give it a culture over a period of 5-6 weeks, and then from the results they can tell whether the baby will be mongoloid or not. We found out we’ll have a normal baby. They also took a sonogram and found there was only one baby in her belly, not twins. What a relief that was. Joan is into her fourth month. Me, I’m going crazy with indecision. I’m in limbo. Joan wants me to get a job; I want to write. She wants security, which I can completely understand, but I have stories to write. So why don’t I start writing those stories now instead of putting them off? I had my excuse, moving, but there is nothing holding me back now.
It’s my family and work that are my top priorities now.
Monday, September 1, 1980 – Shocked Again
This past Saturday I thought I’d go by our former house to see if the mailman had left any mail as he did the week before. What I happened upon was a complete surprise. A young couple and their two kids were living there. I thought they were relatives of Barbara Hallgren. They weren’t. The couple, the del Castillos, were renting the house and had signed a one-year lease. It shocked me that Barbara Hallgren had lied to me. She had rented the house to this couple for $650, almost double of what we were paying.
Wednesday, September 3, 1980 – You Should Have Gotten It in Writing
I called the Rent Arbitration Board. They said they couldn’t do anything since we had already moved out of the house. They also said I should have gotten it in writing that Barbara Hallgren was moving in. The San Francisco Tenants’ Union told me the same thing. I called four lawyers in town and got the same answer—”You should have gotten it in writing.”
Sunday, September 21, 1980 – How a Writer Survives
I’m a writer. I’ve been a writer for eleven years. I’ve published a very small amount of what I’ve written.
“How do you do it?” people ask me. “How do you survive as a writer on such a meager income?” My answer to them is, “Do you see this shirt I’m wearing? I bought it at the Salvation Army for 75 cents.”
People asking me how I’ve survived as a writer has given me the idea to write a story about it. [Note: “How a Writer Survives, or How to Succeed with Very Little Success” was published in 2003 in my story collection The Immortal Mouth and Other Stories.]
Monday, September 22, 1980 – What to Do?
Two days ago, on Yom Kippur, I fasted all day and drank only water.
Sol is growing mentally and physically every day.
Joan and I had a big, big argument Friday night. It had to do with my writing again. I’m not making any money out of my labors. What to do?
Monday, October 6, 1980 – The Latest News
I wrote a letter to Barbara Hallgren last week, telling her how I felt when we moved out for what I thought was greed and cold-heartedness on her part. She called yesterday and we had it out on the phone. Nothing was resolved.
Sol is sick in bed with 103 temperature. If it’s like this tomorrow we’ll take him to the doctor.
Joan is more than halfway there in the baby department.
The 49ers have lost two games in a row. They now have three wins and two losses. Coach Bill Walsh is starting to let Joe Montana play more at quarterback than Steve DeBerg.
Tuesday, October 7, 1980 – The Cost of Things
October is a good month. It’s the beginning of the fall season—not too hot, not too cold. October is the month Joan and I were married last year. It’s also the middle of football season, the beginning of basketball season, and the ending of the baseball season. It’s a time when we’re inundated with sports on television. It’s nearing World Series time. October is Halloween time. It’s that clean-smell-in-the-air time.
The price of a half-gallon of milk costs 90 cents. A dozen eggs is 85 cents. Hamburger meat is $1.80 a lb. A six-pack of beer is $1.75. A large box of shredded wheat is $1.44. Oranges are 5 lbs. for a dollar. Apples are 4 lbs. for a dollar. Broccoli is 49 cents a head. Lettuce is 34-39 cents a head. Chicken is 60-69 cents a lb. Getting into a movie is $2.50-$3.00 for second-run movies; first-run movies $4.00-$4.50. A bag of Spanish peanuts is 59 cents, whereas three years ago it was 39 cents. A bus or streetcar ride is 50 cents; six months ago it was 25 cents. The Golden Gate Bridge toll is one dollar. The Bay Bridge toll is 75 cents. Gas is $1.17-$1.30 a gallon.
Tuesday, October 14, 1980 – The Phillies and Astros
On Sunday, the Philadelphia Phillies defeated the Houston Astros 8-7 in 10 innings. It was the fourth straight extra-inning game between them. The Phillies with Pete Rose and Mike Schmidt will now play the Kansas City Royals and George Brett in the World Series. The Series will be anti-climactic in that the Astros and Phillies probably played the closest series of any two teams in baseball history. Four of five games went into extra innings. Joan even got caught up in the last game, where in the eighth inning the score was 5-2 in favor of the Astros. The Phillies scored 5 runs, and then the Astros in the ninth tied it up at 7-7. The Phillies, in the 10th, went ahead to stay 8-7.
Alan Blum was here that night to watch the game with me and Sol. Joan had cooked a fantastic meal of corned beef and cabbage, potatoes and carrots. All in all, it was a night to remember.
Now—to get to work on my stories.
Friday, October 24, 1980 – Baseball and Family
The Phillies, this week, beat Kansas City four games to two to win their first-ever World Series. It took them 86 years to do it. It wasn’t as memorable, though, as the Phillies winning their five-game playoff series against the Astros. Congrats to their top players—Mike Schmidt, Steve Carlton, and Pete Rose.
Joan’s belly is getting bigger as each day passes. She’s experienced cramps but overall she’s doing fine. I hope she’ll give birth to the healthiest baby in the world.
I’m in good health. I’m writing and sending my work out. I’ve been getting down on Sol for not taking care of his health and hygiene. If only he’d eat vegetables and fruit and quit complaining when asked to clear the dishes from the table or to take out the garbage. If only he’d wear warm clothes in cold weather. If….
Monday, October 27, 1980 – My Friend Alan Blum
Tomorrow will mark anniversary number one for Joan and me. The sun was glorious yesterday and today, just like last year when we got married. I guess you can say that late October is the best time of the year for weather in San Francisco.
Alan Blum and I went out for breakfast yesterday and spent the day reading the paper, watching the 49ers lose their fifth game in a row to the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, and then we ended up walking on the beach as the sun was setting.
Alan is a very good friend of mine. He told me about this woman who’s visiting from New York and how he’s not rushing it with her. He complains that women rush into affairs nowadays and don’t want to form lasting relationships because they’re too caught up in their professions. [Note: Alan never did go with a woman for long. He wanted perfection and never found it.]
Monday, November 10, 1980 – Reagan, the Baby, Short Stories
Jimmy Carter lost to Ronald Reagan last Tuesday. Reagan is now president of the U.S. Poor choice. Very conservative. He wants more defense spending, less help for the poor, he wants to gut the Earth for more oil instead of going forward with solar and wind power that Jimmy Carter started. He’s against everything a decent liberal would be for. Carter, you could trust the man for keeping the peace. But now it’s Reagan and his macho entourage that won’t take no for an answer, which could lead us to a Russian-American confrontation.
The baby is starting to move quite a bit in Joan’s stomach. Just last night she had a revelation, that a pregnancy is what a baby goes through, too. Everyone feels sorry for the mother, but what about the helpless baby?
So far this summer and fall I’ve worked on the following short stories: “How A Writer Survives,” “Paul Milochek’s Struggle with His Friend Dmitri and the Sea,” “Curve Ball,” “The Hero,” and “Hollywood Story.” It’s my intention to get these and my other stories in order and send them out as a collection. [Note: The above named stories, and more, were published in The Immortal Mouth and Other Stories in 2003.]
Sunday, November 30, 1980 – The Movie Producers were Right
The American public, I found out, likes low, vulgar trash. Joan, Sol, and I went to see Caddyshack last night with Bill Murray, Chevy Chase, and Rodney Dangerfield. Why didn’t Joan and I walk out of the theater? Because Sol was enjoying it. The movie included the lowest form of humor—from picking noses, to vomiting, to cheating on golf scores, to blowing up a golf course on account of a gopher, to having sex for no reason at all, to seeing a turd in a swimming pool. Is that what writers and producers think the American moviegoer wants to watch? Sitting in front of us were two older women who couldn’t stop laughing. I guess the writers and producers were right.
Monday, December 1, 1980 – Nuclear Weapons
Rich del Castillo, who now lives in our former house, called and said Daniel Ellsberg was going to speak about Nuclear Weapons at San Francisco State today.
What Rich and I found out was that Ellsberg’s view is not rosy. He believes there’s a chance that a country will drop a nuclear bomb on another country in the next three or four years. This will break the precedent of no nuclear war after Hiroshima and Nagasaki, he says, and that other countries will follow suit. He says it’s not necessarily going to be the U.S. or Russia that starts this madness.
The only way to stop this madness is to inform people by writing letters or becoming active so that my family and the rest of the world can survive. This is not the kind of world I want our baby born into.
I wrote a story about an atomic blast. I called it “The Age of Uncertainty.” It was published in a literary journal, Panjandrum 6 & 7, in 1978. It was the first time I ever got paid for my fiction—$25. It was taken from a chapter in my second novel, Highway Sailor, about what it feels like for a man to experience an atomic blast before he dies. I should keep sending it out as my contribution to the cause of banning nuclear weapons.
Monday, December 22, 1980 – Job Search, Jack Hamster, and the Upcoming Birth of Our Baby
I haven’t sat down to write in a few weeks because I’m trying to figure out what kind of job I should seek. I even took a three-day workshop called “Job Search” at the Department of Employment last week.
Jack Hamster died Saturday morning. We’ll miss the little fellow. He was so much a part of the family. He’d come out during breakfast and dinnertime and load his mouth with food. There were three great learning experiences I observed in him. (1) One night he was so enthralled with his climbing powers that he climbed one of the tall drapes in the living room. He climbed and climbed and made it all the way to the top. But how was he going to come down? Falling was the only way he could think of. He hurt himself badly in that fall. But that wore off after a few minutes. Joan wanted me to save him from falling. But my argument was that if he fell one time he wouldn’t do it again. And he never did do it again. (2) He went down the stairs one day in our new place but found out that he couldn’t get back up because there was nothing for him to stick his nails into. He learned to never do that again. (3) He learned to listen for his name, to come to us when we were in the kitchen.
Jack could barely get around the last day of his life, but he came out of his cage—limping, eyes stuck shut—for the last time to say goodbye to us. Jack Hamster was a gentleman till the very end. We’ll miss him. The three of us buried him in the backyard Saturday afternoon. We didn’t say anything. It wasn’t necessary. It was just a quiet, solemn moment for that gentle, hungry soul that he was. May Jack Hamster rest in peace.
Joan has about a month-and-a-half to go before giving birth. She is healthy and happy. There are a few things to get for the baby and then we’ll be all set.
Addendum
Joan gave birth to our son Raymond on February 7, 1981. We named him after my father.
For the next three years, I worked as a long-term substitute in the public high schools of San Francisco. The only time I could find time to write was during the summers. Due to a very stressful teaching experience in the first quarter of 1984, I contracted asthma. I quit teaching that summer and became a wholesale costume jewelry salesman. My asthma cleared up after six months. Although I was making twice as much money in sales than as a teacher, selling costume jewelry gave no meaning to my life. I wanted to get back to writing again, but how was I going to do that? In my third year of jewelry sales, I got an idea to gather as many health quotations as possible. I sent a proposal to Hay House in 1989, and they accepted it. In 1991 Words of Wellness: A Treasury of Quotations for Well-Being was released. Since its publication, I’ve been writing full-time ever since.
#####