Description
Journal 1984: Overcoming Asthma and Changing Careers is the 13th yearly journal written by San Francisco author Joseph Sutton. While teaching high school English in 1984, Sutton contracted asthma. This yearly journal shows how he overcame that dreaded disease and why he had to quit teaching. To keep supporting his family, he became a salesman. But he never forgot his true calling of returning to writing again.
Prologue
Before I began my writing career, I taught history at an inner-city high school in Los Angeles for three years. I moved to Berkeley in 1969 at the age of 29 to begin working on a novel, A Class of Leaders, about a history teacher who allows his students to teach. After finishing my novel in 1973, I tried to get it published but it was rejected many, many times. My next writing project was a novel about my travels around the country in a VW bus in 1974. I settled in Portland, Oregon, and began working on Highway Sailor. To support myself, I became a substitute teacher.
In 1977 I moved to San Francisco to finish Highway Sailor. I soon met my future wife, Joan Bransten, a single mother living with her six-year-old son Sol. While sending Highway Sailor to publishers, I started substitute teaching in the secondary schools of San Francisco. Like my first novel, all I received were rejections. In 1979 Joan and I got married and in 1981 our son Raymond was born. I had sold short stories and articles over the years, but it surely wasn’t enough to support a family. The year Raymond was born, I started hustling for as many substitute and long-term substitute jobs I could get. This went on for a few years until I contracted asthma in the spring of 1984. Because of asthma, I left the teaching profession to become a costume jewelry salesman. Journal 1984 shows how that change came about.
Sunday, January 1, 1984 – Happy New Year
I’ve got a hangover from the New Year’s Eve party Joan and I threw last night. Let’s hope it’s going to be a good year this year.
Sunday, February 5, 1984 – A New Semester
It’s a new semester at McAteer High, and my classes, behavior-wise, are much better than last semester. Last semester, the beginning of the school year, in the second week of school, I was thrown into the fire as a long-term substitute to teach four ninth grade English classes and one beginning typing class. That wouldn’t have been so bad except I had to rush to four different classrooms every day. This semester, although I still don’t have my own classroom, we can get down to business. We’ll be doing grammar and punctuation, journal writing, reading William Saroyan’s story collection My Name is Aram, turning in three book reports, and taking spelling tests. For me, to write is to live, except I haven’t been able to write because I’m too busy teaching.
The 49ers played the Washington Redskins in early January and barely lost the NFC Championship 24-21. The 49ers were down 21 points at the end of the third quarter. They finally woke up in the fourth quarter to score three touchdowns. The Redskins had possession of the ball in the last minute and drove down to the 49er’s five-yard line. They were helped by two controversial holding calls by the 49ers’ defensive back Ronnie Lott. Mark Mosely then kicked a field and that’s how the Redskins earned the right to go to the Super Bowl.
Two weeks ago, in what was supposed to be one of the great Super Bowl matchups of all time, turned out to be one of the most lopsided scores since the Super Bowl began 18 years ago. The Los Angeles Raiders defeated the Washington Redskins 39-10.
January was a tough month for our family. Everyone in the house got sick. Raymond couldn’t get outside for a couple of weeks.
Raymond will be three-years-old on February 7. He is a new boy since he doesn’t need diapers at night or during the day. It sets both him and us free. And he can communicate very well now. He’s really a character. He is good at knowing numbers and the alphabet, he’s interested in books, he brushes his teeth with me, he can wash his hands, he’s organized, he has a great memory, and I can go on and on about my son.
Joan’s father, William Bransten, 78, who’s had Parkinson’s disease for many years, has been in and out of the hospital multiple times this past year. God, the medical bills must be astronomical.
Sunday, April 1, 1984 – Sick
I was out of school three days this week. I had the flu and am just recovering from it. For four days, all I did was stay in bed. I even ate my meals in bed. Joan, Raymond, and Sol pitched in to make it easy on everyone. The first two days I was sick, when I should have stayed home and rested, I taught at school and stayed for parent-teacher conferences, plus I worked for the teacher’s union to organize substitute teachers.
So now I have some semblance of strength and am preparing to go back to school tomorrow.
This year has been a drain on me physically. Twice I’ve been extremely sick, and for weeks I’ve had no energy. There’s a lot of sickness going around. Raymond’s been sick, students have been sick, and it’s hard for a father/teacher to be immune from all those germs.
Last night Joan asked me if I liked my job at McAteer. My answer to her was, “Yeah, I’d like it if I’m not made nervous by ninth graders who make trouble in class, who don’t come prepared with pencil, paper, and book, and who refuse to listen.”
The other thing that makes it hard to teach is that I don’t have my own classroom. Every hour I have to gather my material and rush through crowded hallways to get to my next class. There are no windows in the whole school. It’s built like a fortress. Maybe I’ve been sick so much because I’m breathing recycled air from the building’s ventilation system, or maybe it’s invisible asbestos particles floating in the air from the worn ceilings in two of the five classrooms I teach in.
Friday, April 13, 1984 – Asthma
I have asthma. This has got to be the most sickly year I’ve ever experienced in my life. The thing is, I don’t want to continue having asthma. I’ve got to find a cure. It’s like death when you can’t breathe. All I want to do is lie down. I don’t want to walk or talk to anyone, nor am I interested in anything. All I want to do is sleep. Plus I have hay fever.
Sunday, April 15, 1984 – Sickness is Slavery
Yesterday I went to Kaiser hospital for the fifth time in two weeks. Man, when a person goes to the Emergency Room in the middle of the night five times in two weeks, something is really wrong. They give you shots of adrenalin so you can breathe. I was in bed all day yesterday, but I could breathe. Today’s the first day I’ve had some semblance of energy in three weeks. Three weeks ago I came down with the flu. I had that for a week, but then these asthma attacks started. I’ve been in hell for three weeks and today’s the first day I can see some light. There is nothing in life that is as important as health. Health is freedom. Sickness is slavery.
Today’s the first day I’ve been able to actually go for a short walk. Every day for three weeks, all I could think of was lying down in bed or in the sun. I feel alive for the first time in weeks. I have to overcome this asthma and get strong again. It’s imperative that I do so.
I’m writing in my journal much less this year than any other because I’ve never been busier teaching and I’ve never been as sick as I have. Plus I’ve been trying to organize substitute teachers for the American Federation of Teachers (AFT).
Sunday, May 6, 1984 – Hay Fever
I had trouble breathing last night. A killer.
I found out this past week at Kaiser that I’m allergic to cats and every pollen in the air. There’s a chance I’m allergic to other things as well, since I’ve taken only half the skin tests. Pollens are the main cause. Ever since I was 13 I’ve had hay fever in the spring. Pollens are causing this breathing problem I have, this coughing, wheezing, sleeplessness, no energy, and depression. Hay fever has been my Achilles heel since 1953.
Friday, June 1, 1984 – No Longer a Human Being
I found out from the Allergy Department that I’m allergic to dust and mold, as well as pollens.
I haven’t been able to be a human being since February, when I came down with the flu. I’ve been locked up for four months because of flu, asthma, and hay fever. Sometimes I feel like throwing it all in. I can’t walk, swim, go outside, get out of town, or sleep anymore. If a person can’t do those things, how the hell can he be a human being?
Saturday, June 16, 1984 – Skip Diamond
School is out. No more McAteer High School, thank God. It’s been a very rough year on my nerves. I’m feeling better already.
I saw an old high school friend this week—Skip Diamond. Skip is a chiropractor in San Rafael. Another high school friend, Nate Wirt, a chiropractor in Houston, turned me on to Skip. Skip says he can cure my asthma.
My health is the most important thing to me right now. I intend to get in shape this summer by walking and swimming. I’m going to eat right and not drink much alcohol. I weigh 183.
I saw The Natural with my friend George Krevsky this past week. It’s about a young baseball phenom Roy Hobbs, played by Robert Redford, who is shot by a mysterious women. Eighteen years later, Hobbs returns to baseball to lead the last place New York Knights to the top of the league. The movie spoke to me in that life doesn’t go like we’ve planned in our teens and twenties, but there’s still a chance for us to keep working at what we want. What do I want? I want to be a full-time writer again.
Joan’s birthday is tomorrow. She’ll be 44. I’ll be 44 in August.
Wednesday, July 4, 1984 – Marty Biegel and Bruce Gardner
I’ve been on vacation for more than two weeks and this is the first time I’ve had a chance to write in my journal. The reason: I’m getting back into shape both physically and mentally. A transformation is taking place. Let me explain.
One, my diet has changed, due to the advice of Dr. Skip Diamond. He told me to eat more vegetables, fruits, grains, and nuts (but not peanuts). There’s no more red meat, dairy, liquor, white flour products, or sweets in my diet anymore.
The second thing is exercising. I’ve been doing quite a bit of it while we’ve been staying at my cousin Vic Sutton’s house in the Hollywood hills. I swim in Vic’s pool and I’ve gone to three yoga sessions with him.
Dr. Milt Birnbaum, my mother’s doctor, when he was at her house for dinner a couple of nights ago, said there are three things that can happen when a person is emotionally upset. It either hits the heart, turns into a skin rash, or has an effect on the lungs. Because of the stress I went through at McAteer High, it got to my lungs.
Shall I change professions or not? I’m still torn between teaching or working at a job with less stress. What kind of job, I don’t know yet.
Anyway, Joan, Raymond, and I are in L.A. Sol is at a summer camp near Yosemite. Vic has put us up for eight days. It’s been the closest to heaven for the three of us. We’re all getting our heads back into shape. We’re swimming, getting sun, and eating healthy food.
Yesterday I saw Marty Biegel, my high school baseball coach. He treated me to a vegetarian lunch at Old World restaurant on Sunset Boulevard. Marty Biegel has a great zest for life. He is, as he says, “a people person.” He loves old friends and students, has energy, and a great memory.
As we were driving in his car to the restaurant, I stupidly said, “I didn’t learn anything from you, Marty.” He said, “You must have. You’re sitting next to me right now.” He was right. I did learn from him. I wrote a story—”Curveball”—based on an incident I had with him. He, the coach of our junior varsity baseball team, wouldn’t listen to my demand of wanting to start the next game after I struck out five times the previous game. I struck out five times because I was afraid of every pitch. You see, I had gotten hit in the head by a curveball while taking batting practice the day before my downfall. (There were no batting helmets in those days.) I demanded that Marty play me so I could get my confidence back or else I’d quit the team. He wouldn’t give in and so I walked off the field to never play a game of hardball again. Marty taught me by sticking to his guns. In my story, though, we reconcile our differences and Marty helps me overcome my fear of curves.
We talked about Bruce Gardner. Bruce was two years ahead of me at Fairfax High. He was such a nice, thoughtful, intelligent person who made All-City first team as a pitcher. His signature pitch was a curveball that dropped. Because he was under 18 at the time he graduated, his mother, his only living parent, wouldn’t let him sign with the Chicago White Sox for $66,000 (a very large sum in 1956). She wanted him to go to college, as did USC’s baseball coach Rod Dedeaux. In his last year at USC, Bruce led the baseball team to the national championship game and was named College Player of the Year for 1960. The L.A. Dodgers signed him for $12,000. In his first year as a pro, 1961, Bruce pitched for the Dodger’s minor league team in Reno and recorded a brilliant 20-4 record. He was on his way. But then tragedy struck. While serving in the Army National Guard at Fort Ord, Bruce hurt his pitching arm in a freak accident when he fell off a truck. For the next few years he gave everything that was in him but couldn’t get back to his old pitching self. The Dodgers released him. Many jobs ensued. The last job he had was teaching P.E. and coaching the junior varsity baseball team at Dorsey High School in L.A. In 1971, he left a long typewritten note on the pitching mound of Bovard Field at USC. In it he blamed his mother and Coach Dedeaux for not allowing him to become a big league pitcher out of high school. Also on the mound were his college diploma and All-American trophy. Bruce, a lefty, then put a gun to his left temple and shot himself.
It was big news in L.A. for a whole week.
Tuesday, July 10, 1984 – A New Life
My mind is not on writing, but mainly on two other things. One, I’m looking into jobs other than teaching. Two, I’m getting into shape so I won’t suffer from asthma ever again.
Yes, I’m thinking of quitting the teaching profession. I’m considering something I never thought of doing in my whole life, and that is going into sales.
Should I be a salesman or get back to writing? I’d love to write but it’s not realistic right now because I, along with Joan, have to support our family. Right now I’m calm and not worried about the future. My brother Maurice, a sales rep of women’s clothing, said he could help me get a sales job in San Francisco.
I’ll be 44 next month and am beginning a New Life. I never made it as a college football player at Oregon, I never made it as a writer, and I never made it as a teacher. I’m actually looking forward to a change.
Thursday, July 12, 1984 – Getting into Shape
The farthest thing from my mind is writing, yet in the past two days I’ve received a $300 check from Suzanne Shaffer for two stories she published in San Francisco Moon, and a $40 check for a story that Byline Magazine published. I must never forget that I’m a writer and that I should keep on writing.
Tomorrow I have an appointment with Dr. Skip Diamond. My bill with him is soaring, but he tells me not to worry about it. I believe he’s helping me by adjusting my back twice a week, but what really helps is his taking the time to talk to me.
I go swimming four days a week. Yesterday I swam 30 laps at Rossi Pool on Arguello. I haven’t swam that many laps in years. I’m getting stronger.
Tuesday, July 17, 1984 – Hope
Mario Cuomo made a spectacular speech at the Democratic National Convention last night that almost swept me off my feet. He gives people hope. Although the convention is taking place in San Francisco, I haven’t felt the slightest impact of it in that I haven’t gone downtown, nor do I intend to go downtown.
The Giants are 18 games out of first place. It’s not their year. Frank Robinson, manager, might be fired.
Monday, July 23, 1984 – “Quit Teaching”
I feel improvement in my health. I’m sleeping better, I’m swimming at least a half-mile four days a week, I’m walking on the days I don’t swim, and I’m eating healthy food. The only thing is, I’m not taking the time to WRITE. I have story ideas, too. I find it hard to concentrate for any length of time because I’m constantly on the move. I drive 13 miles to San Rafael to see Dr. Skip Diamond twice a week and I go to the allergy clinic at Kaiser twice a week to get immunization shots to pollen, mold, dust, and cats. My allergy doctor, when I last saw her, sat me down and advised me to “quit teaching” because of the stress it caused me.
Thursday, August 2, 1984 – I Love Writing, but…
So many things are on my mind. Raymond, the Olympics, writing, Joan, my future work, Sol.
Raymond will be 3 1/2 in a few days. He gets very emotional about things, such as when he isn’t able to watch Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers in the morning. I can see his intelligence shine through a few times every day. He has a very good memory. He’s athletic. He cries a lot, but also laughs a lot.
I’m getting caught up with the TV coverage of the Olympic games going on in Los Angeles. Track and field hasn’t even started yet, but I still find it interesting to watch bike racing around an oval track, Greco-Roman wrestling, volleyball, basketball, gymnastics, and swimming. I bought two tickets to see a quarter-final soccer match at Stanford Stadium this coming Sunday with Sol.
Writing: I can’t seem to find the time to write. A writer has to make the time. I’m acting like an amateur—writing when I feel like it instead of doing it every day.
Joan wakes up early in the morning, makes breakfast for the boys, makes lunch for them, then drives them to the Jewish Community Center for summer camp. While there, she works as a secretary for Benita Kline for three hours a day at $8 an hour.
Sol is a very good kid, but he’s on the phone all night, every night. He says he’s thinking of getting his hair colored like a punk rocker. His life is completely different from mine at the age of 13. At 13 I was playing ball every day and was rarely on the phone. I know it’s stupid to compare, but Sol just overdoes it on the phone, which prevents him from communicating with the family.
My future: I’ve been thinking of going into sales for my brother Maurice, selling sweatshirts and sweatpants instead of teaching. Teaching would be fine if I knew WHAT and WHERE I was going to teach so I could at least prepare in advance. But for the past three years, the school system has pigeonholed me as a long-term substitute, throwing me into situations where I have to learn on the fly—like being a counselor, teaching speech, teaching typing, or teaching four different subjects to sixth graders. I’ve applied for a permanent position as an English/history teacher but they won’t let me through the door. They’ve worn me down. I’m not going to take their crap any longer. If I do, I’ll end up in an early grave. Is writing the answer? I’ve made a total of $4000 since 1969. That’s 15 years almost to the day, August 20, that I began my writing career. If you divide 15 into $4000, it comes out to be $267 a year. Atrocious. I love writing, but how am I going to support a family on such a measly income?
Sunday, August 5, 1984 – “Chi-chi-le-le”
Today Sol and I went down to Stanford Stadium to see a quarter-final soccer match between Italy and Chile. Italy won by a score of 1-0. They looked far superior to Chile. The only thing that stood out for Chile was its fans constantly yelling, “Chi-chi-le-le.” There were 70,000 people at Stanford today. It was hot, over 80 degrees. The crowd was quiet, except for those rabid fans rooting for Chile or Italy. The match, to me, was boring. Why? Because in two hours there was only one score, and that was a penalty kick in overtime with no one in front of the kicker except the goalie protecting the net 12 yards away. It’s exceptionally hard to score in soccer. And to think, it’s the most popular sport in the world. Baseball is ten times more exciting. Football, a hundred times. Basketball, a hundred times.
Joan told three stories this morning at the Jewish Community Library. She is an exceptional children’s storyteller, getting every kid involved in her stories.
Tomorrow I will wake up early and leave the house at 7 a.m. to lap swim at Rossi Pool. I’ve been making a habit of swimming every other day for the past two weeks. I swim between a half-mile and three-quarters of a mile. It’s making me stronger and healthier. I’ve been cutting down on my asthma medication, which is a great relief.
Sunday, August 12, 1984 – Camping
The redwoods. That’s where my friend Alan Blum, Raymond, and I are right now. We’ve been here since Friday afternoon. We’re at Hidden Springs Campground on the Avenue of the Giants, next to the Eel River. It’s the quietest spot of any campground I’ve ever been in. The Eel is wonderful for swimming. Raymond is having a great time camping out for the first time in his life.
Alan and I are sitting at our camp table now, writing. Raymond is playing with a boy in the campsite next door. The redwood trees tower over us—these magnificent, strong, healthy, light-reaching trees.
This has been a great two days of sharing, caring, relaxing, swimming, drinking, eating, and toking. I would like to mention sleeping, but I forgot to bring our foam mattress. For the past two nights Raymond and I have slept in our tent on very hard ground. We slept poorly the first night; the second night was much better.
Alan and I, for the past two nights, have stayed up and talked about a wide range of things, like our futures, women (Alan is always seeking a woman companion), Jews, Arabs, Americans, nature, society, greed, learning, kids, marriage, friendship, death, life, money, our pasts, and our goals. What I’ve gotten out of our talks is that I will try sales, to see if I like that line of work. The reason why I might like it is because I’ll be moving around in society, seeing more, and being more physically active than I would as a teacher.
My goals are to someday own a house and be a full-time writer.
Sunday, August 19, 1984 – Up and Down about Sales
Tomorrow will be my 44th birthday. I’m going into sales to see if it works for me.
My close friends want me to stick to writing. The thing is, I can’t make a living as a writer. It’s very hard to sell a book or a story.
I feel up and down about sales. One minute I think I’d like it, and the next I think the opposite. As Maurice says, “You won’t know until you hit the streets.”
Wednesday, August 22, 1984 – My Eyes Were Tearing
I developed a sore throat on Monday, my birthday, which developed into my being sick yesterday, and just today I had an asthma attack.
Monday I awoke at 6:30, went swimming, came home to eat breakfast, then drove to Skip Diamond’s office in San Rafael. After he adjusted my back, we talked about the manuscript I gave him of my short story collection, The Immortal Mouth and Other Stories. He said he wasn’t going to charge me for the 2 1/2 months I’ve been seeing him. He said he wanted to support my writing by not charging me the $1500 I owed him for his services. My eyes were tearing when he told me that. He said, “Joe, you have a talent that needs to be recognized. I’ve recognized it. I want others to recognize it. You’re a sensitive and humorous writer. The people need you.” It was truly one of the great gestures ever bestowed upon me.
And so what did I do after leaving Skip’s office with a clean bill of health? I drove to a large showroom in downtown San Francisco where my brother Maurice, up from L.A., and other sales reps were setting up their booths to show their wares. That’s when my throat began to get sore, really sore.
That night I couldn’t sleep. The next morning I was sick and rested. Today it hit my lungs and I had to take my asthma medication.
Sunday, September 9, 1984 – Smokey and Bear
I have to write a story of John Clark and me visiting Bruce Anderson in Boonville yesterday. Boonville is a rural town 115 miles north of San Francisco. Bruce Anderson is the owner and editor of one of the most eccentric weeklies in the country, the Anderson Valley Advertiser. John Clark, a fellow writer who I met at the San Francisco Writers’ Workshop, had set up a meeting with Bruce, and talked me into driving him up there. Bruce, in our meeting, said he’d accept anything we sent him. After leaving Bruce’s house, John, who had brought his pool cue with him, said he wanted to play a little table pool in one of the bars along the main street.
After he ended up playing three games, I told him, “I don’t want to get home too late. I have to go to work tomorrow.” John said, “Let’s go to one more bar and I promise I’ll play only one game.” He played three games.
Finally, at around 8:00 p.m., we got into my car for the 115-mile trip back to San Francisco. “Home, James,” said John, meaning he wasn’t pleased with leaving so early.
John Clark, who I will call Smokey, is an addicted cigarette smoker. An addicted smoker doesn’t think of others. They’re worse than children. At least a child will listen after four or five times, but John/Smokey Clark, he couldn’t think of anyone except himself by lighting up in my car after I firmly told him that cigarette smoke was bad for my asthma.
I, Bear, couldn’t take it any longer. I pulled over on Highway 101 and said, “Get out of my car!”
“I have to smoke,” Smokey pleaded.
“There’s no smoking in my car, do you understand?”
“Home, James,” said Smokey.
The rest of the way home, Smokey rolled down his window, letting the cold air in so he could blow the smoke out. Bear had to put his hoodie over his head to keep warm.
When they arrived at Smokey’s place, Bear said he wanted his book manuscript that was in Smokey’s apartment. Bear had something of Smokey’s in the trunk of his car. Smokey said, “Open the trunk, James.” “You’ll have to get my manuscript first.” “Open the trunk, James.” Bear couldn’t take it any longer. He got into his car and drove off, never wanting to see or speak to Smokey again, for if he did, he would want to hurt him. Smokey felt the same way towards Bear.
Thursday, September 13, 1984 – Letter from Smokey
I received this letter from John/Smokey Clark in the mail today:
I do not want the draft of your novel. What I do want are the three bottles of wine I bought in Boonville that are in the trunk of your car.
You may contact me from ten till noon almost every day so that we can work out this hostage situation.
In the meantime I suggest that you do not take people who need to smoke often on a 200-mile roundtrip, nor take any drive that lasts after dark, nor try to throw anybody carrying 21 ounces of pool cue out of your car. All that does is lose friends for you.
John
Sunday, September 16, 1984 – Demeaning Is How I Was Treated
For the past three weeks, I’ve been “hitting the streets” of San Francisco selling sweatshirts and sweatpants. I’ve made only six sales, which is not enough. I’m thinking of other ways of making a living in sales.
I’m almost finished with a three-day apple juice fast that Dr. Skip recommended. He wanted me to cleanse my system. I didn’t cheat once. Boy, I can’t wait to chew on something. The fast helped my asthma. I think I’ve beaten that dreaded disease. I’ve been off of all medication for three days. I’ve lost a lot of weight with this juice fast. I now weigh 175.
School began last week. I got a call to substitute and told the caller that I was finished with teaching in the school system. I’m fed up with how the San Francisco Unified School District treated me. Demeaning is how I was treated, having to rush to four different classrooms every day for a whole school year. I gave them my all, and what did I get out of it? Asthma. And guess who has to pay the bills? Me.
Tuesday, September 18, 1984 – Everything’s Getting on My Nerves
Joan and I had a very loud, heated argument last night. Raymond was right there and he was screaming and swearing along with us. It was a sad moment, especially to see our son reacting like he did. Our arguing got so bad that I had to leave our flat and go for a walk. I ended up a half-mile away at a used bookstore on Clement and 6th Avenue. A woman and I were the only ones on the second floor browsing through the books. A most peculiar thing happened. The woman, holding one bare tit in her hand, walked up to me. She didn’t say a word. Even though I was still disgusted from fighting with Joan, I told her, “Get away from me. I’m married and have two kids.”
Living ain’t easy. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. Now that I have my health back, I have other problems. I can’t seem to get along with my wife, my stepson, and my own son. Everything they do bothers me. Joan buys crap food and thinks only of storytelling and not the family. Sol is always on the phone and is living in a garbage heap of a bedroom. Raymond has a temper and doesn’t listen as well as he is able to a lot of times. Life is rough. Plus, I don’t even know what I want to do. Do I want to be a wholesale salesman or a writer?
Everything’s getting on my nerves. It seems that all people care about are their looks, what they own, their hairstyle, or clothes style. People want to be different, but in trying to be different they’re conforming. Why? Because they spend money on useless clothes. The clothes manufacturers are having a heyday. All the fads in clothes and everything else lasts maybe three or four months. Everything’s instant gratification.
And then our government says it needs more and better weapons. Some schmuck government official says the Russians can blow up all our missiles. He’s forgetting that there aren’t just missiles in the world, there’s life going on, from the smallest insect to the largest mammal. We have this so-called expert telling us we need Star Wars weapons in space to prevent a first strike by the Russians. Now why would the Russians want to destroy the world? Why would anyone want to destroy the world? “But,” says the expert, “we must build weapons so the Russians won’t destroy us.” This Reagan administration is being bought off by the weapons-makers, and every day those weapons-makers are getting richer and richer for something that can only be used for destructive purposes.
This is the society I live in: conspicuous consumption, instant gratification, outer appearance means everything, crap food, mindless and violent TV shows, violence in sports, sex flaunted, bombs and more bombs produced, people voting for an empty-headed president who says we’re better off now than four years ago.
I’m sick in the soul. But I must survive to provide for my family.
Thursday, October 11, 1984 – Selling Sweats
Tomorrow I’m going to talk to my brother Maurice’s friend, Jack Levine. Jack’s in the costume jewelry business.
I’m still selling sweats. I’m not making enough. I generated $1100 in sales today. Out of that, my take was $55, which is zilch. I need to make double that per day.
Friday, October 12, 1984 – Costume Jewelry and a Check
I met with Jack Levine today and he offered me a job selling his costume jewelry line.
In the mail was a $25 check and a copy of the Anderson Valley Advertiser with my short story “The Hero” in it. Owner/editor, Bruce Anderson, kept to his word by publishing whatever I sent him.
Tuesday, October 23, 1984 – Learning Jewelry Sales
I’m on the road with costume jewelry salesman Jay Lieberman. He’s teaching me how to sell. That’s right, I’ll be working for Jack Levine of JPR Jewelry Company. Jay sells mainly to Longs Drugs and Payless Drugs. We were in the Fresno area today. Jay is giving me his territory of San Francisco and surrounding areas.
Jay says a sale is 80% personality and 20% product. Today he made $350 for himself. He/we worked hard. We woke up at 5:30 a.m. and finished at 6:30 p.m.
We ate dinner at Round Table Pizza in Fresno. We’re staying at Motel 6.
Monday, November 5, 1984 – Erratic Sales
I made $560 selling costume jewelry last week. Not bad. Today I made $40. It’s erratic this sales business.
Saturday, December 1, 1984 – My Opening Line
“Hello. My name is Joe Sutton and I represent JPR Jewelry Company.” That’s my opening line. Yesterday I hit rock bottom, making only $15. Last week, in one day, I earned $200. I have to look at it on a month-to-month basis, not on a daily basis. I made $1300 in my first month of sales.
The things I like about selling: 1) That moment when a buyer says she likes my jewelry line and wants to order. 2) Discovering new places in the Bay Area. 3) Meeting new people.
The things I don’t like: 1) Hauling around two heavy suitcases of costume jewelry. 2) Rainy days. 3) Walking into toxic-smelling beauty salons. 4) Rushing to get to an appointment. 5) Freeway traffic.
As for writing, I’ll get back to it someday. But for now my life is totally immersed in selling jewelry.
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Epilogue
I sold costume jewelry for four years and earned between $36,000 and $42,000 per year, more than double of what I was making as a long-term substitute. But I wasn’t content selling costume jewelry—it gave no meaning to my life. I needed to get back to writing. In my third year of jewelry sales, 1987, the idea came to me to compile a book of quotations on all aspects of health—be it mental, physical, spiritual, or emotional health. After much research, I collected 2000 quotations from the sages of all ages and grouped them into 115 categories. In 1989 my query letter and sample quotations caught the eye of editor Dan Olmos at Hay House. Words of Wellness: A Treasury of Quotations for Well-Being was released in 1991. It was the success of that book that gave me a chance to become a full-time writer.
Two more thoughts: 1) I overcame asthma in six months. 2) As soon as I started making money in sales, I began paying Dr. Skip Diamond for visits to his office.