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MORE SUMMER IN BROOKLYN

1976 - 1979
MORE SUMMER IN
BROOKLYN
1976 - 1979

RICHARD GRAYSON

Superstition Mountain Press


Phoenix – 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Richard Grayson.
All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America.

Superstition Mountain Press


4303 Cactus Road
Phoenix, AZ 85032

First Edition

ISBN 978-

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Richard Kostelanetz
More Summer in
Brooklyn
1976-1979

Wednesday, June 28, 1978

5 PM. I was supposed to go into the city and


do something with Mikey and Larry this
evening, but I’m going to call and give them
some excuse. I don’t feel like taking my car to
Manhattan in this 90° heat, especially since
I’ve just come back from taking Josh to Staten
Island to pick up his new car, a ’69 VW.

Getting back to the subject of what I did


yesterday at the Unemployment office, in
chatting up the security guard, I really did think
of what Wayne Dyer might suggest I do in that
situation. Being hostile is no good, but I can be
creative when I’m stuck somewhere for four
hours.

Suppose I go there next Wednesday with a


notebook and ask everyone there I’m dealing
with his or her name, saying I’m writing an
article. People might get uneasy and get me
out of there more quickly. I could take
photographs. Or if I want to take another tack,
I can enhance that place’s humanity – what
little it has – by giving out bubblegum or
lollipops to everyone.

If I want to make people laugh, I could wear a


gorilla mask or bring along a hand puppet.
Next Wednesday I can do a variety of things to
make the long wait pleasant.

I’m almost looking forward to it with a sense of


adventure. And I’m trying to put other “non-
victim” principles into effect.

Yesterday I received a form letter from the


English Department chairman of Nassau
Community College turning me down for a Lab
Assistant position. The letter stated that they
wanted someone with a B.A. in English and
experience in remediation. And after all, I only
have two master’s degrees and teaching
remediation experience.

So I called up the college and asked to speak to


“Peggy” (not “Professor Haskell” – Dyer says to
use first names and it worked). They said
she’d call me back, but then I found out her
home number and left a message there. Since
I don’t really care about getting the job, I can
afford to look silly or nervy; I want to see where
it will get me.

I told Jonny to do the same when he found out


he failed Economics even though he had a 74
average. And talk about being silly: I just sent
away to the Village Voice to have this ad put in
their bulletin board section: “Learn To Write
Fiction — The Richard Grayson Way! Send $1
for first lesson: Grayson, 1607 E 56 St, Bklyn,
NY 11234.” It’s worth the $18 to see if I get
any responses. I don’t expect to, but who
knows? Maybe people will see my name and
think I’m an asshole – but they’ll be thinking
about me, right? And maybe this will be a
good way to sell Disjointed Fictions.

Look, we’re in New York City, the media capital


of the world. I’m reasonably bright and I
should be able to figure out a way to get free
publicity. The strategy I’ve got to take must be
creative.

For example, I’d really like my work to get to


Ted Solotaroff, Eliot Fremont-Smith, Harvey
Shapiro and Irving Howe – but how to get
through to them past the mounds of books and
manuscripts they must get every day (most of
which end up at the Strand Book Store
anyway).

One tack – and you could do this only once –


might be to send the books to their wives at
home. At least it will get into their homes and
possibly to their wives – who may feel
neglected or whatever and who will mention it
to them, maybe just to annoy them. It’s worth
a chance, isn’t it?

If I sound silly, fine. Tim O’Brien at Bread Loaf


told me that he was interested in moral issues,
especially courage, and he asked me what the
point of a “silly” story like “Joe Colletti” was.
Well, Tim-hotshot-novelist-beloved-by-critics,
maybe the point was that it takes courage to
be silly these days. My biggest breakthroughs
in my work have come when I stopped caring
what people thought and went ahead with
something idiosyncratic and playful.

The galleys of “I, Eliza Custis” arrived from


Texas Quarterly and I’ve got to correct and
return them by next week; the story looks very
classy, and long, too.

Impact accepted “Why Van Johnson Believes in


ESP,” and the editor said he loved my story in
Statements 2 and was about to get in touch
with me when he got my submission. Nice,
huh?

Wednesday, June 29, 1977

11 PM. I was suffering from boredom and lack


of stimulation this afternoon, but I conquered it
by getting myself out to dinner and then to
showing of Robert Altman’s “3 Women” at the
Midwood. It worked like a charm, for the movie
haunted me enough that I was able to come
home and knock out a pretty good (my
opinion) story straight out on the typewriter.

Altman is a genius, and “3 Women” is one of


his more intimate films; he concentrated on
only a handful of characters and the results are
beautiful and macabre. Shelley Duvall and
Sissy Spacek are, as always, superb; I could eat
them both up, but I’ve always been taken with
Sissy Spacek’s odd, albino-like dumb beauty.
God, I would like to spend the night with her.

Anyway, my story, a speck compared with


Altman’s canvas, is influenced by him; called
“Progress,” it’s a surrealistic and subtle (I
hope) story of homosexual indoctrination.

I spent last evening on the phone with Libby


and this evening with Alice. Libby’s mother
was pleased to hear that I started getting
unemployment checks and we had a nice chat
before she put her daughter on the phone.

Libby – come to think of it, she has a Sissy


Spacek quality – is back at work now, doing
everything including taking tennis lessons. She
was dismayed about the date of Avis’s party
because her friend Tommy asked her to
reserve that date for him. Maybe we can work
something out.

Libby said Mason called her up from Jersey and


told her he’s coming in for a weekend soon.
“Where are you staying?” she asked. “With
you,” Mason told her. Libby and I talked about
Avis’s forthcoming visit and we agreed to see
each other soon.

Tonight Alice told me she ran into the mother


of Phyllis (who, having graduated law school, is
taking the bar exams and has a job awaiting
her with Legal Aid) and Harriet (married and
the mother of a baby boy) and Judy (now
divorced and graduating Brooklyn College);
Mrs. Rappaport sent me her regards.
Alice sold several articles today for $325 and
got a $500 assignment from Ladies’ Home
Journal, but she’s so jaded by now, she doesn’t
bat an eyelash. Her big interest now is her
musical version of Alice in Wonderland, and
she recited for me some songs she’s written.
They were all quite clever, and she said Scott is
quite impressed.

She read me a Seventeen press release about


her promotion and June’s hiring; their credits
and biographies sound so imposing, but I guess
maybe mine would, too.

Alice is even more pragmatic and


achievement-oriented than I could ever be.
She told me she wishes she had started writing
earlier because now she would be “ahead of
myself.”

I couldn’t understand that, especially when she


used me as a “for instance,” saying I “wasted a
year” studying literature at Richmond College.
Of course that year wasn’t a waste, and I can’t
even grasp Alice’s concept of being “ahead of
yourself.”

If I had wanted to write fiction that badly in


those days, I would have. And I don’t really
feel that there’s any kind of timetable for
success. Alice says she hates the work of
writing, she only loves getting the check and
seeing her name in print.
For me, the joy is in the act of creation itself. I
lose myself, I exist in my present state, when I
am creating. Sure, acceptances cheer me up
and rejections depress me, and I love seeing
the expanding shelves of magazines featuring
my stories. But that’s all frills to me.

Kenward Elmslie of Z Press told me to submit


stuff to him next spring when he plans another
issue; he said it’s always a surprise to get an
unsolicited manuscript as good as mine.

Last night I had terrible insomnia and couldn’t


get to sleep until 5:30 AM. I felt sluggish all
day, stayed out of the sun, went to the bank,
watched TV and put myself into a state
resembling a coma until I snapped out of it late
this afternoon.

Saturday, June 30, 1979

8 PM. Half of 1979 is over already; it barely


seems possible. I had a productive session
with Dr. Pasquale today. Ivan’s brother Chet
offered Dad the job of salesman for his
Florida/Alabama/Georgia territory, and Dad has
accepted. He still has another job interview on
Monday for a position with a jeans firm in
Manhattan, but if that doesn’t work out, he’s
going to Florida.
At least that’s what Mom says. With Dad, well,
as usual, “it’s not the right time to talk about
it.” For Dad, it’s never the right time to talk
about anything important and unsettling. He
never prepared for the future because he was
too afraid to look at it. That’s how he got
himself into the position he is now: where, at
52, he has to work for Ivan’s family for $300 a
week.

Mom can’t be very happy about his being away


traveling, but I don’t think she really accepts it.
Even now, I tend to doubt Dad will make the
move. Of course, he’s broke and he doesn’t
have much choice. He’s scared, he told me,
and worried about how Marc and I will do on
our own in New York.

I became furious with him. How dare he worry


about me, who can take care of myself better
than anyone in the family. And, I told him, if he
hadn’t made it so easy for Marc by taking him
into the business – the way Grandpa Nat did
with Dad himself – Marc would have found
something on his own by now.

At least I broke the vicious cycle of being


dependent on my father for a job. Dad admits
that Grandpa Nat did everything to make his
life easy. Dad still can’t get out of his father’s
shadow. The reason he failed in business with
his partner was because Dad thought the man
would treat him as a son, the way Grandpa Nat
did.
I am furious with Dad for getting himself – and
his family – into this position, but I also can’t
help myself and I feel very sorry for him.

I suppose Ivan’s family will treat Dad well,


though of
course I resent what I see (psychologically, not
realistically) as their control of my father. I
always wanted to be like the Reitmans myself.
And I will be.

Dr. Pasquale says I vacillate between utter


helplessness and assertive mastery, and that I
haven’t learned that true control isn’t entirely
in or out of my hands.

Anyway, if my parents move to Florida, that


raises a new question: Do I still want to go to
Albany for the doctoral program? I am going
there, and I’ve never denied it, more for
personal reasons than for professional ones. At
28, I wanted to break with my family and live in
another city.

But if this home I’ve lived in all my life no


longer is our home and my family – except
Marc – is in Florida, I don’t really need to go to
Albany to escape them. In fact, all that change
might be too much for me. I’d be giving up my
ties to New York City and I don’t want to do
that.

If my parents remain here, I’ll definitely move


to Albany. But if they go to Florida, it becomes
an open question. I might be happier (and now
I suspect I would) living on my own in the city I
know and love.

Dr. Pasquale didn’t think this sounded


unreasonable. I’m not worried about making a
living. There will be teaching jobs, writing
assignments – I’m not afraid of getting a full-
time position doing anything I have to. I have
many resources to fall back on, and the change
will be easier for me than for any other
member of the family.

Dr. Pasquale says (and of course he didn’t have


to tell me this) that I have to think about how
much Albany means to me. Do I really want a
doctorate? No. The program looks interesting,
but I don’t think that the program per se would
make me a better writer; it was the experience
of independence I was looking for to give me
that.

It sounds as though I’ve already decided – but


then again, who knows what my parents will
do? Inertia has ruled them for so long they
have a hard time doing anything new. And as
Dr. Pasquale said, I still have a couple of
months to decide.

Thursday, July 1, 1976

10 PM. I see we’ve reached the midpoint of


1976; the first six months whizzed by so
quickly. Life goes by so fast, I think it’s wise to
remember how fragile life is. I’m proud to say
that on Monday night, I lay in bed giving thanks
for the precious gift of that day.

I’ve come to accept certain things with age;


maybe I’m beginning to mellow. There’s very
little I can do to change things: most profound
thoughts have already been expressed, most
good books written, most great deeds done.

But I can offer what Sam Levenson at


commencement called my “message”: the
unique small thing I carry around with me by
having lived the life of Richard Grayson and no
one else.

I am confident that I will die having


accomplished little more than a small fraction
of what I set out to do. But if I work hard (by
my standards), relax, enjoy life and have fun, I
may do all right in the end.

Uncle Monty is dead, but if he’s in the


consciousness of one person – perhaps a
stranger to whom he told one of his jokes or
even someone who stared at him on a bus –
then he still lives.

I flatter myself sometimes that the world cares


what I put down on these pages when reality is
that very likely no one else out there will see
them. It doesn’t matter; I have written them;
that’s enough.

Yesterday at the funeral, Grandpa Herb took


me aside to say that his niece Suzi had brought
over a book of Jewish stories – “by some guy
named Bellows.” But, Grandpa Herb said, after
reading them he decided, “Personally, I prefer
your little antidotes.” I smiled at his kind
words and the wonderful malapropism.

Last night I dreamed that I sent a story to the


Ladies’ Home Journal and received a check for
$1,250. It would be wonderful if my dream
proves prophetic, but if not, it’s nice to know
that my subconscious is with me, too.

I worked all day today for the Fiction Collective;


it’s a pleasure to work. I met Gloria at George
Braziller’s office this morning. Mindi Schecter
has been fired, and Sam Kleinberg, the sales
chief or whatever, helped us out.

I am in awe of George Braziller. A


distinguished-looking grey-haired man, he
seems to be so discriminating and cultured.

Gloria had called me last night. She had


spoken to Jon Baumbach and he agreed she
could pay me something if she ever needs me
to come in for a full day. He also said that
something by me will definitely appear in
Statements 2. Gloria knows that I’m more
reliable and hard-working than most of the
author-members of the Collective, and I worked
pretty hard on the First Novel Contest.

Unbelievably, we managed to pare down that


mountain of perhaps 400 manuscripts to 45 to
be given to the judges (15 each). One
charming cover note I must reproduce in full:
“Dear Sirs: I am presenting a novel about a
Turkish princess who became a gunfighter and
a sheriff in the Old West to protect her
Christian Arab people from the hostility of the
Anglo-American outlaws during the days of the
cattle-boom after the Civil War while riding a
camel (sic). I hope this novel will be accepted.
Yours truly, Mercedes Penera.”

It was very discouraging to read though (even


a few first pages) of such trash, but by 1 PM,
we were finished. We had lunch on Lexington
Avenue; Gloria eats so much because she’s
pregnant. I really like her, and after working
alone with her for two whole days, I can
understand how people caught up in a project
together can become very close.

We have nothing in common but the Fiction


Collective’s work, and yet I think I’m capable of
falling in love with her. (Physically, she’s
especially cute now, but I’ve always adored
pregnant women.)

We rode the subway to Schermerhorn Street


and I worked at the office the rest of the day,
trying to make a dent in the manuscripts plied
up and the queries and requests to be
answered.

Saturday, July 2, 1977


6 PM. I’m not feeling too bad. Which is a
pessimist’s way of giving thanks.

I slept well, had an erotic dream about Cara


Weiss, whom I haven’t seen in years. In its
way, the dream was fairly logical: I was going
up Riverside Drive when I spotted Teresa, who
invited me in and said I should say hello to
Cara. A friendly kiss turned into more
passionate ones, and before I knew it, we were
a tangle of arms and tongues. Very nice.

Aunt Sydelle moved out of her house finally;


she got $65,000 for it. She’s still in
Cedarhurst, in some very pleasant garden
apartments off Central Avenue. She may be
happier there than she would have been in
Florida, where everyone seems so old.

Cousin Robin is still going through her


breakdown, but a psychiatric social worker has
moved in with her and is caring for her. Aunt
Sydelle spoke to him on the phone and he
advised her not to interfere, that he knows how
to handle Robin’s crippling depressions.
Sydelle said that aside from being Gentile, the
man is too good to be true.

I stayed out of the sun today; instead, I was


working on sending out submissions. Writers’
Resources, a very valuable Boston newsletter,
arrived today, and it listed several places to
send out to. I think that eventually I should
have a small press willing to put out a
collection of my short stories; that’s my
immediate goal now, to gather the best stories
already published into one book, my book.

I’m too intelligent and well-informed to have


any delusions of bestsellerdom or even
breaking even. I know about the poor small
press distribution system, the low public
demand for short story collections, the lack of
reviewing space, etc., etc.

But realistically, if I’m to survive financially, I’ll


need to exist on teaching jobs – and I don’t
mean adjunct positions at LIU. A book, if it’s
well-done – and I’ll make sure it is – will
enhance my reputation, which is so far based
only on stories in various little magazines.

Also, it will satisfy my need to hold a book


that’s completely mine, one I won’t have to
share with anyone. As Alice said the other day,
she most enjoys “hustling.” I do, too – that
process of making a name for myself in the
small press world.

I’ve always wanted to be an important member


of a community (that’s why I loved my
LaGuardia Hall years at Brooklyn College) and
I’ve still got the old politician in me. So I
subscribe to all the magazines and the journals
and I write letters to the big machers like
Charles Plymell, Len Fulton, John M. Bennett,
Diane Kruchkow, et al. I get to know them and
eventually they’ll get to know me and I, too,
will be a small press “name.”
That part of the job is just as important as the
writing, and I like to push my way to power. I
don’t do anything underhanded or sneaky
(except perhaps allowing two little mags to
print the same story – but I’ll never do that
again).

Simon could never understand this: he thought


my going to the New York Book Fair was a
waste of time, for example, and he used to
mock all the small-press magazine title names
to me. But Esquire and The New Yorker didn’t
want Simon, he wouldn’t settle for less, and so
he gave up writing altogether.

If I had had Simon’s talent, I’d be famous – or


at least fairly well-known – by now. Of course
more than half of what little income I have
goes into paying for paper, xerox, envelopes,
postage (I used up a $13 roll of stamps in less
than two weeks). But it’s worth it as an
investment in the future.

Sure, I’d like to be making the $10,000 a year


Simon is. But he’s a file clerk in the hospital
and he can go nowhere. I, at least, have a
chance, and the chance looks better every day.

I have diarrhea now, for some reason, but I’m


going to try not to let it prevent me from going
out tonight. If it does, there’s always
tomorrow. (I never knew a guy with diarrhea
could be so optimistic.)
Tuesday, July 3, 1979

6 PM. I’ve just been outside, talking with Jonny


and a cute little bespectacled boy named
Georgie who wants to become a lion tamer.
Bologna, he told me, is his “best food,” but he
doesn’t like to read or eat bread.

Today was a day when absolutely nothing


happened – and I wasn’t surprised. I don’t
know if there is such an animal as Luck, but I
seem to have observed it over the years.
There are times when things go well for
somebody and even their bad moments turn
out to be disguised blessings. My life has
always seemed to operate in alternating spurts
of great activity and absolute nothingness if
not downright bad news.

I’ve been devouring Jules Witcover’s Marathon:


The Race for the Presidency, 1972-1976; it’s
very absorbing. I’m a sucker for presidential
politics and always have been. I sometimes
think I’d have been happier being a
professional politician rather than a writer.

Anyway, reading about Carter’s amazing


campaign from nowhere, one sees a pattern of
hard work and enormous luck. (Mo Udall, in
contrast, couldn’t get one break.) Did Carter
use up all of his luck in 1976? Today he got
the lowest poll rating in history, 76%
disapproving, worse than Nixon just before he
resigned.
The Carter administration seems to have
unraveled completely, and I think it’s too late
to put it together again. Carter will probably
have to withdraw as a candidate next year.

Another lesson Witcover’s book has taught me


(though I’d long suspected it) is that politics –
any kind of politics: academic, literary or
electoral – it’s the perception of an event that
counts for more than the event itself. Reality
seems to be just a shadow compared with
Image. The media can change a defeat into a
triumph, a sad event into classical tragedy.

Last week I read Nora Ephron’s Scribble


Scribble, a sharp, witty collection of her
Esquire “Media” columns. I am fascinated with
television, newspapers and magazines, which
again seem more real than reality.

Incredible changes have taken place because


of TV, but since I’m of the first generation
which never knew anything else, any other
reality but a TV world, I don’t think everyone
up there has gotten the message. Marshall
McLuhan, what are you doin’ these days?

I ventured from the house today only to get a


haircut, but I know what’s going on in
Manhattan and Moscow because of TV, the
papers and radio. I know who’s Hot and who’s
been indicted. Probably I know much too much
and am beginning to feel my circuits
overloading.
Just think of all the time and emotional energy
I’ve invested in Liz Taylor, Truman Capote,
Skylab, the boat people. . . In a year, will any
of this matter? Fame and celebrity seem to be
instantaneous and instantly gone.

Is it worth it to try to achieve fame? Is it more


noble, more honest, to work as a graduate
student in Albany? Or to take a job in a
backwater place like Fort Valley State College
in rural Georgia (“Carter Country”) – I got a
letter today saying they’re interested in me.

God, “bubble popularity” – a term I remember


from Thomas Hart Benton in Profiles in
Courage – is so heady. A week ago I was Liz
Smith’s column and I felt intoxicated. Of
course there’s a great letdown, as with any
drug.

I can probably make myself into a Public


Person, but do I want to be one? Well, I guess
days like this are good for something, anyway.
Tomorrow is the Fourth of July; in no time the
summer will be over.

I no longer worry about not writing. Something


tells me I know what I’m doing.

Sunday, July 4, 1976

11:30 PM. By the time I finish writing this, the


Bicentennial Fourth of July will be over. I did
just what I said I would not do, of course, and
was an observer at both Operation Sail and the
fireworks – if only briefly and from a distance.

Now I can rest easy that when, come the year


2025, my grandchildren ask me the inevitable
question, “Grandpa, what did you do in the
Bicentennial?” – I can look the little tykes
straight in the eye (assuming, of course, that I
don’t suffer from cataracts or senility) and tell
them just what I did.

Alice called me at about noon, and she’s


mostly responsible for this. She was tired after
four hours of playing paddleball, and both her
current sweeties were unavailable for the
historic day (Andreas stayed in New Jersey “to
avoid getting trampled on” and Jim was
somewhere in New York Harbor, on a friend’s
father’s ferry).

So she bicycled over here and berated me for


being so unpatriotic as to sit on my porch
reading while the rest of America was out
doing their part to celebrate. She used the
now-familiar “grandchildren” ploy and then
proceeded to work on my guilt.

She herself felt very guilty, Alice said; her


brother dutifully went off this morning at 6 AM,
camera and radio in hand, so as not to miss a
minute of anything that might occur.

Her brother, I explained to Alice, works for the


State Department and so must be on some
official diplomatic business. He’s currently
serving in the fascinating post of Adviser for
Micronesian Affairs, and there must be at least
one Micronesian somehow connected with the
Bicentennial.

But Alice said I couldn’t let her feel guilty about


this, and so, good friend that I am, I drove her
to Brooklyn Heights so we could glimpse a few
of the sailboats from the Promenade.

(Alice is a strange girl: she feels guilty about


staying home on the Bicentennial but she
doesn’t feel the slightest twinge of guilt about
seeing Andreas and screwing him last Friday
night, then coming back to Brooklyn and then
seeing and screwing Jim. We should all be so
lucky.)

Before patriotism, of course, comes hunger –


so we ate lunch at Pica-deli. There we ran into
(as I knew we would) Simon with some
buddies, including his friend Elliott from The
Racing Form, and we were cordial, cheerful and
mercifully brief with one another.

It was nice to dine outside at a sidewalk table.


The weather was magnificent (for the moment,
at least) and we watched the crowds and the
street vendors pass by. Then we too went over
to the Promenade and joined everyone in
watching the sailing ships pass by.

I’m not trying to be a jaded cynic, but I failed to


be impressed. Lightning and thunderstorms
started acting up and brief rains came, so we
high-tailed it back to my house, where Alice
cycled somewhere for more interesting
adventures.

Still, I am terribly glad that I had a friend to


spend the day with, and it actually was good to
be out in the throng, which was unusually
good-natured.

Tonight, after dinner and rereading on my own


of the Declaration of Independence and the
Constitution (seriously), I drove to see the
harbor fireworks from the car – first looking on
high on the Gowanus Expressway and then
from a street near the docks in Red Hook.

The fireworks were quite spectacular, the best I


have ever seen. The sky lit up with color, and
I’ll write no more about it, for I fear that every
idiot in the nation is penning some words about
his own Bicentennial feelings and experiences.
(Alice had said she wanted to do something if
only so that she could write about it in her
journal.)

Back home, I sat on the porch for a while,


watching East 56th Street’s annual display of
loud noises and bright lights. And I am very
grateful – yes – to have been born an
American.

Wednesday, July 5, 1978


5 PM. I’m feeling pretty discouraged after a
difficult day. At 6 AM I awoke with severe
stomach cramps, the kind usually accompanied
by diarrhea. But I didn’t really get diarrhea;
the cramps persisted by themselves, and even
now I have them.

I drove down to the Unemployment office and


only had to wait an hour today. The
caseworker told me (after I had asked
someone) that I am not eligible for benefits
unless I bring a note from LIU saying I will
definitely not be rehired for the fall.

I asked how come the law was different last


year when I had been eligible for benefits, and
he said the legislature changed the law. But
I’m sure he doesn’t know. (He wrote out a
report on our interview and left out all the
apostrophes in the possessives, but I didn’t
correct him.)

I left the Lawrence Street office feeling


ashamed, as if I had done something wrong.
What really makes me mad was that I didn’t
collect my $11-a-week benefits (the difference
between my benefit rate and what I actually
earned) all last academic year, knowing how
many people (members of my own family
among them) collect money they don’t really
deserve.

I went over to LIU, where I got more bad news.


Because of low registration, Margaret doubts
that there’ll be a course for me to teach in the
second summer session. (There certainly
won’t be two.) I came home feeling utterly
dejected.

Dr. Wayne W. Dyer doesn’t tell you how to deal


with anger and depression of this kind. In fact,
he seems to feel there’s no reason to be
depressed, ever. He overlooks the idea that
maybe depression could be healthy – as in
mourning, for example. I find his endlessly
cheerful pop philosophy doesn’t suit me, and
I’m going to give it up except for those parts
that still make sense to me.

I really want to cry for a while, but I can come


up with anything more than slightly moist eyes.
Money is going to be a real problem again. I’ve
been spending too freely lately.

Let’s see: I have $650 or so in the bank.


Assuming that I don’t get a teaching job later
this summer, that $650 will have to last me
until November 15 or so, when my first adjunct
check arrives. That’s clearly impossible.

So the only solution is for me to get a job. I’ll


wait till after next week, when Margaret should
know about the second summer session either
way. I dread the prospect of a menial job, and
I don’t see that I can get anything else. My
typing skills are too poor for secretarial work
(which would be horrible anyway).

I won’t work for less than $3 an hour, and I


don’t think I’m being unreasonably proud – not
with two master’s degrees, a hundred
published stories, and three years of college
teaching experience. Two years ago when I
worked for that crook Fassbinder, I swore it
would be the last job of that type I took.

I don’t want to again be a messenger, shelve


books in the library, wait on department store
customers, deliver laundry or flowers or be a
bimmie in a nursing home.

I’m reading Thoreau now, and he says to


“simplify”; I’m certain I can get by on less than
I think I can, but it won’t be easy. I’ll have to
cut down on all my expenses and hope
unexpected ones don’t arise.

I lost a total of about $1,500 today – before I


even collected it. “Easy come, easy go” is a
trite expression, but it’s true. Money is
meaningless anyway. And I’m trying. I really
am.

My ad, “Learn fiction writing the Richard


Grayson way – Send $1 for first lesson”
appeared in the Voice today. I don’t expect
any replies, but it will be nice if they do come.
Undoubtedly people will think I’m a jerk, but
Thoreau didn’t care about people thinking that
about him and neither do I.

I just wish I had the consolation of self-respect.


Wednesday, July 6, 1977

7 PM. I want to get into bed early tonight. It’s


cloudy and thunderstorms are threatening.

I may have to have root canal work done


tomorrow. Last Wednesday I broke my tooth,
and today, when I went to Dr. Hersh, he fixed it
up as best he could but said the nerve may be
exposed. From the way I jumped when he
touched near the nerve, I suspect that’s true.

I dread the prospect of going down to the


Williamsburgh Savings Bank Building, to that
team of endodontists where I had oral surgery
twelve years ago. But if I must, I must. Dr.
Hersh says my gums are in bad shape, too. If I
don’t start taking care of them, I’m going to
end up with pyorrhea.

My nerve is throbbing now, but that may just


be the result of the dental work. By tomorrow
morning, I should be able to judge. All I hope is
that I’m not kept awake by the pain of an
exposed nerve. I still recall the pain of it when
I was 14; it was the worst pain I’d ever had or
have had since then.

Days like this make me feel like I’m falling


apart at 26.

I had a kind of acceptance today; make of this


what you will: The editor of Punch, a new
Seattle magazine, wrote, “I’m keeping ‘A Story
for Negroes’ and ‘An Incomplete Story,’ though
I don’t quite know what to do with them.”

He explained that the three editors of the


magazine are all poets, and mine was the first
fiction they’d seen which appealed to them.
Their second issue is filled; their third issue is
to be on the Long Poem; and so my work won’t
appear until at least the fourth issue – which
could be a year away, or, knowing little
magazines the way I do, it could be never.

Still, I have hope and patience and I told the


editor, a Mr. Cervantes, to go ahead and keep
the stories, and I sent seven dollars for a
subscription. If anyone knew how much money
I spend on subscriptions to little magazines,
they’d think I was crazy.

Of course, I look at it as a way of paying my


dues, of spreading good will, and of getting to
know what my contemporaries are up to.
Already my small press books and magazines
are easing the other books off my bookshelves
(and onto the ones in my brothers’ room and in
the basement): the Literary Guild and Book-of-
the-Month Club books that were once all that I
owned.

Who knows? Perhaps one day my little


magazine collection will prove valuable – that
is, if they’re not thrown out the way my
superhero comic-book collection was.

Mom and Dad are supposedly leaving on Friday


morning, although Dad’s very upset because
they unexpectedly told him to come back next
week and sign for his Unemployment check;
heretofore he’s been signing every two weeks.

Avis writes that she’ll look all over Bremen and


try to get me the Rilke book I’ve been wanting.
Her parents will pick her up at the airport, but
she asks if I can drive her to pick up Helmut
the following week. Thank God something
pleasant will happen this July. I can’t wait to
speak to Avis, to see her again.

Ronna’s another matter. She’s now been back


over a week and I’ve yet to hear from her. I
bet she doesn’t call until late summer. She
and her family will be moving out at the end of
the month and I won’t know where she is. That
will make the third time in a year that she
hasn’t given me her address, and I’d say that’s
a pretty good indication on what to look for in a
relationship with her. Phooey on Ronna, I say.

Mikey sent me a birthday card saying, “What’s


a month between friends?” Not a thing, of
course.

It occurs to me: Do I judge Ronna by a different


standard than I do Mikey or others? I suppose I
do, but ex-lovers are never in the same
category as other friends. Vide: Last week
Scott was most curious about Avis. And Avis
today wrote me to say she was thrilled about
Teresa’s party. She asked, “Will Scott be
there?” She didn’t ask about anyone else. I
rest my case.
No writing today, and a foray into the library to
get the creative juices flowing proved hopeless.
All I found there was an article called “Ph.D.’s:
The Migrant Workers of the Academic World,”
about adjuncts. Misery loves company.

Saturday, July 7, 1979

9 PM. I just came back from Rockaway to an


empty house. It’s so quiet. It’s hard to believe
that in a few months this house won’t be ours
anymore.

When I went down to breakfast this morning,


Mom said, “I don’t know what I’m going to do
with your father.” Dad was up all night
worrying, mostly about Marc and me. “He
thinks you’re going to starve in the streets.”

He makes it difficult for me to feel angry with


him for that, of course – and that makes me
angrier. Mom said it’s unnatural, the way he
feels. Remember how Grandpa Nat used to cry
when Dad and Mom visited him in Florida and
then had to leave? Dad is his father all over
again. I never knew a man to be so protective
of grown children.

All these years I’ve believed Mom was the


typical Jewish mother who couldn’t let go.
Well, it turns out that Dad was the more
overprotective parent all along. “He needs a
psychologist,” Mom told me this morning.
My psychologist and I talked over the situation
today. I’m glad I have Dr. Pasquale; he’s a
rational, stable force in my life. He seems to
think that all my fears and anxieties are quite
realistic. After living in such a close-knit family
for my whole life, it’s going to be hard on me,
on all of us. As Dad said to Mom, “It’s like
breaking up that old gang of mine.”

But of course it had to happen sooner o later.


Mom, I think, would like Marc and me to live
together, but I doubt if that would work out.
I’m not close with Marc, and our interests are
very different. I’d rather think of him as in the
background somewhere in case I ever need
help.

I seem to be leaning towards staying in the


city. Dr. Pasquale doesn’t think that’s a cop-
out. Albany never meant a professional boost
to my career; my reasons for going were
personal. I told Dr. Pasquale of my reaction to
my parents’ announcement about moving to
Florida, and he told me that my immediately
sending out résumés was a healthy, activist
way of coping.

I am worried about money, but again, that’s a


realistic fear. One fear grounded in fantasy is
Dad or Mom dying or getting very sick. While
there’s always that possibility, at 52 and 48
they’re both young and in good health, and
what happened to Grandpa Nat will not repeat
itself.
I am surprised at how positive I feel about
getting my own place in the city; it’s exciting. I
can still feel comfortable in familiar
surroundings, and I could even take my old
furniture with me. If people like Josh and Elihu
can survive financially on their own, why can’t
I? I can survive emotionally, too – with the help
of my friends. And Grandma Ethel and
Grandpa Herb will still be around; I’ve always
been closest to them.

I went to see them tonight, bring my book –


which Grandpa Herb insisted on paying five
dollars for. (Several people – Ivan, Jay, Marie –
have asked to buy the book from me, and I
think I’m going to make money that way.)

Instead of Grandma Ethel cooking for me, I


showed her that I could make cheese omelets
for dinner. Grandpa Herb fixed the cuffs on a
new pair of jeans for me, and after Grandma
Ethel went out “to work” (to play cards), we sat
in the bedroom and talked.

Grandpa Herb told me that he had an


underwear manufacturing and contracting
business which he started in 1944. It was all
black market stuff, and in a year they made
$100,000 profit. The IRS was watching him,
and at one point he had $30,000 stashed in a
bathroom hamper.

Grandpa Herb told me he’s got about $50,000


in various bank accounts now, but he tries to
live on his Social Security. I am more and more
interested in making money – I never had to
before – and on the way home I bought The
Only Investment Guide You’ll Ever Need, which
I plan to read now.

Thursday, July 8, 1976

10 PM. It’s Worrying Whether It’s All Worth It


Time. It just struck me, while I was making
another batch of stories and queries, after
another day of hard work trying to promote my
writing career, just why the hell I’m bothering.
I don’t expect to take success well; I’ll probably
become more of an egomaniac than I am now.

I’ve changed enormously. Other people see it


and tell me I’ve grown too confident, too
brittle, too arrogant. Today I got a rejection
that said my material was “too distant” for the
editor: “”We’re looking for the real, sweaty
personal stuff – yours may even be real, but if
so, you’re a cold person.”

Of course the editor is a moron; judging me by


one of my stories is absurd. But still, it hurt –
and I guess the fact that it hurt still shows I’m
not a total egomaniac. This is crazy: me
worrying about success going to my head when
here I am, at 25, with $150 in the bank, no job,
and living in my parents’ house.

But I have the feeling that I can make myself a


success through sheer will power and hard
work. I do get very arrogant sometimes, as
when I answered a nasty rejection with an even
nastier (and very vulgar) note; today the reply
came and I dumped it into the garbage
immediately, too ashamed to read it.

After a day at the Fiction Collective office,


working and grasping at every bit of
information that could do me some good,
trying to get an “in” and ingratiating myself
with everyone, then coming home, reading my
mail (Aspen Leaves said my writing is “the best
we’ve seen in six months” but they’re booked
solid; Tom Fisher wrote and said I was the first
person to respond to his plea for money and he
hopes to get Star-Web Paper out this summer;
Coda arrived with much information I can use)
– sending out manuscripts all seems rather silly
and beside the point.

The trouble is, you see, my basic instincts are


political, not literary (the old Poli Sci major
shows through). I feel I’m getting away from
myself, taking myself too seriously, becoming
pompous – and in the end that will destroy me
as a human being and as a writer, too.

I’ve become obsessed with the idea of my own


success. I don’t need, at this point, to
frantically send stories here and there. I know
what will happen eventually: I’ll get two
acceptances for one story and then I’ll be in
real trouble.

Enough about writing. Let’s bring our hero’s


(villain’s?) two friends onstage and let’s see
what’s going on in their lives.
The latest installment in The Alice Saga is this:
Last night Alice tried to write Jim a letter, but it
turned out too mushy. Then she got this bright
idea: she bought Chinese fortune cookies and
took the fortunes out with tweezers, replacing
them with her own slips of paper on which
were written such gems as “Please reconsider –
you’ve nothing to lose” and “In New York the
number is 251-6613” and “A short brunette will
reenter your life – she hopes.”

Alice went to the playground and finally found


a teenager who said he’d deliver the box of
fortune cookies to Jim’s door – or so Alice
thought. He gave the cookies to his pothead
friends in the playground and ran away.

By this time it was 11 PM and Alice was in


tears. But she doesn’t give up easily; she rode
around the neighborhood on her bike until she
found a Chinese restaurant that was still open,
stayed up and did it all over again, leaving the
cookies at Jim’s doorstep this morning. So far
he hasn’t called.

As for Gary, he had an “anxiety-provoking”


interview in D.C., had a bad flight in a storm
coming back (“I thought I’d never see Brooklyn
again”), but he’s confident he’ll get the job –
although he’s going to try to get Liz Holtzman
to “pull some strings and make it a surer
thing.”
Saturday, July 9, 1977

10 PM. Do you know where your children are?


Do you know who they have become?

I have a sticking pain in my stomach. It


couldn’t be hunger. I had a Whopper, fries and
a giant Sugar-Free 7-Up not three hours ago. I
feel beaten down tonight. Let me take a
tranquilizer. If I can have one more good
night’s sleep in my life, let it be tonight.

God, I’m beginning to sound like Jonny,


invoking the Deity. Jonny went to the
synagogue this morning and slept the rest of
the day. He should write a book: Total
Avoidance. Sometimes, not often, I envy Jonny
his defenses.

I began reading Virginia Woolf’s Moments of


Being. I want to read it in small doses because
it’s too good to be gulped down. I suppose I’d
say it was like a fine brandy if I knew what
brandy tasted like. (Brandy, of course, reminds
me of Ronna, but by now I’ve completely
forgotten about her.)

The Postal Service tells me a package sent to


me got separated from its wrapper. They
thoughtfully sent the wrapper. It had a June 29
Chicago postmark, 55 cents metered mail. It’s
probably either the complimentary copies of
Mati or of Oyez Review, which are both in that
city. So I wrote both editors informing them.
This annoyed me no end. Because. You see, if
I’ve got something published, I’ve just gotta
see it right away, hold it in my pudgy little
hands. So. . . tired as I was, hot as it was (no
more air conditioning in my car), I went to
Manhattan this afternoon at 4:30 PM, just to
see if the magazines had come out and I could
find them.

Sean Wilentz said hello to me at the Eighth


Street Bookshop (I bought a nice little
magazine, Works in Progress), but nothing of
mine was there. I took a delightfully air-
conditioned F train to the Gotham Book Mart,
but avoided spending any money there.

Then I drove down to Soho Books – the latest


contender – and I came away with a nice small-
press scene mag, Contact II and a beautiful-
looking anthology, Taxi Dancer, poems put out
by Exotic Beauties Press, whom I am hoping
will publish my collection of short stories. But
did find “my” magazines. No matter.

Stephen Bailey of The Midatlantic Review, a


terrible mag, keeps rejecting my work,
although in his most recent rejection he
allowed as how “you do have a different way of
looking at things.”

Charles Plymell answered my letter. After I


wrote him, I learned he was the first man to
publish Zap Comix. He wrote “DIG YA!” to me.
He talked about a writers’ union and put down
Barthelme and told me he was sorry he didn’t
get to the BC Conference; Diane Kruchkow
showed him the brochure and he said it looked
interesting. Charles said he just attended his
first – and last – COSMEP conference. All these
small press names are becoming people to me.

This morning I went to the AAA and got a Trip-


Tik for my drive to Vermont. It’s only 270
miles, mostly New York State Thruway; at Lake
George I cut off to Vermont.

Deanna’s staying over for the weekend,


sleeping in the master bedroom with Marc. I
suppose the reason I don’t mind is that Deanna
is so unobtrusive one hardly realizes she’s
around. I never saw such a mousy person. But
she’s sweet.

Uncharacteristically, I went with her and Marc


to the Staten Island Zoo today. Deanna
wanted to go to a zoo, Marc wanted to take
pictures, and I was the only one who knew how
to get there. It was fun, especially the
Children’s Zoo.

Deanna is so naive that I can’t believe the


things that come out of her mouth; she’s
Gracie Allen in platform shoes and a halter.
She was disappointed there weren’t enough
“cuddly” animals and Marc had to drag her
away every time a baby passed. I had a lot of
fun, though; it was a nice change.

Monday, July 10, 1978


10 PM. I didn’t do my exercises today, but
then I didn’t have to. I worked hard helping
Dad with the goods. My body is starting to
ache a little.

Last night Elihu called. He got these three


HEOP classes in social science at LIU, starting
today; they pay an unbelievable $1,500 for six
weeks. And there’s almost no preparation
involved, since the stuff he’ll be doing is basic,
like orienting them to college study, teaching
them how to read a newspaper, etc. I’m very
envious. Al Orsino is doing the English HEOP
classes.

Elihu said he’s already fallen a week behind in


his American History class and hopes they can
get to World War II before the term ends in two
weeks. Oh well. I’ve had my share of teaching
experiences in the past, and now it’s Elihu’s
turn.

As I told Elihu, I’m very fatalistic about getting


courses: “If God had meant for me to teach, He
would have had students register for freshman
English.”

I slept magnificently, having this monumental


dream about Ronna and me working our way
through a maze of rooms in her grandmother’s
house and ending up in the old bungalows in
Rockaway during a July Fourth gala celebration.

I was awakened by Dad at 8 AM, and half an


hour later I was following him and Marc to
Flushing. It was good to be out early in the
morning – but even at that hour, you could tell
today was going to be a humid scorcher.

Rick Davis, Dad’s idiot of a salesman, was


there to work with us. The shipment came in
at 11 AM – but one-third of it (19 out of 60
cartons) was missing, and Dad almost fainted.
He has more orders for jeans sold than he got
in! He’s missing 1150 pair, which were
probably hijacked from the pier in Jersey; the
truck driver said he couldn’t find them on the
dock. They’re probably being worn in South
Carolina by now.

I can see the problem Dad has in his business:


so much can get screwed up between Hong
Kong and here, and it’s largely out of his
control. At least the reduced shipment meant
less work today. It was hard getting the
cartons (50 pair to a carton) down the wooden
slats on the steps; I was the middleman on the
landing and got quite bruised.

But opening the cartons, sorting them by sizes


and setting them up for orders took forever; it
was a combination of busywork and physical
labor. I thought it would never end, despite
breaks for iced tea and lunch. I left at 4 PM,
leaving them there and drove home from
Flushing feeling somewhat woozy and pretty
smelly.

At home, Jonny told me that E.L. Doctorow’s


attorney called and said he wanted to speak to
me. Evidently Eliot Fremont-Smith told him
about the phony letter on “Doctorow’s”
stationery. But I’m not worried in the least and
I certainly don’t intend to call back the lawyer.
He can’t do anything but scare me – and he
can’t even do that.

Even if he could sue me, the publicity I’d get


out of it would be worth it. At this point I have
nothing to lose – not even a reputation.
Actually, if this guy (and Doctorow) went to the
trouble to look up my phone number, it’s more
recognition that I’ve gotten than I ever did for
my work.

Speaking of work, I got my copies of riverrun


today with my “Go Not to Lethe Celebrates Its
27th Anniversary: A Soap Opera Journal
Special.” They changed only Mason’s name
and left the rest of the story intact. It’s a very
risky thing for me to do, but it’s done now, and
I think it’s one of my strongest pieces. If I
could have only one story to represent my life,
I would want it to be this one.

I spent an hour xeroxing the story and the


résumés I typed up yesterday. I have almost
no money now, and I’d soon better get started
finding a way of making some. Maybe I should
tell Doctorow’s mouthpiece that I’ll settle out of
court if he gives me $20,000.

Sunday, July 11, 1976


9 PM. Four years ago I was in Miami Beach,
attending the Democratic National Convention
with Leon, Skip and our delegate, Mikey. It was
an exciting time for me, and I thought I’d try to
see what was going on at the 1976 Convention
today as long as it’s being held in New York,
starting tomorrow.

And I did do something I could do in ’72: get a


close-up glimpse of the Democratic nominee.
Yes, I’ve seen Jimmy Carter in the flesh, bright
smile, cool blue eyes and all.

I figured the best place to go was the


Americana Hotel, the headquarters for the
Carter campaign as well as the New York and
Iowa delegations. I parked my car on Eighth
Avenue and 52nd Street, and as soon as I got
out, I was approached by a man asking me
where Seventh Avenue was.

He had one of those very noticeable non-New


York accents (he pronounced his r’s) and I
asked him if he was here for the convention. It
turned out that he was the chief political
reporter for U.S. News and World Report, “that
is, I will be if I ever get my credentials.”

I went with him to the Americana, where he


picked up his credentials and I walked around.
There was really no difference from the lobby
of the Diplomat Hotel in Florida in 1972 and the
lobby of the Americana in 1976: the people
looked the same, spoke about the same things,
the hotel glitter was there, the hospitality
suites . . . only the candidate and the mood of
the party had changed.

This year, after eight years out of power,


caused in part what they feel were contentious,
bickering conventions, the Democrats smell
victory and everybody seems ready to swallow
(if not love) Jimmy Carter because he can bring
them victory.

Why did I go there today? I’ve always been


fascinated by politics, and conventions in
particular: seeing people from everywhere,
from all ethnic groups and walks of life, get
together and choose a President.

And I’m irresistibly drawn to power, to where


history is being made. I live in this time, so
why shouldn’t I play a role in it, even if I’m only
an outside observer?

Certain types at conventions were in evidence


along the streets of midtown Manhattan, like a
red-haired teenager, a button collector trying
to get all the buttons he could; and a middle-
aged, slightly drunk-looking man sitting outside
the hotel, his sports jacket covered with green
Carter buttons as if they were growing on him
like ivy (he was selling them for fifty cents
each).

There were information desks set up, and


downstairs in the Americana, Carter HQ was
being set up, with tables for Women, Hispanics,
Blacks, Messages, Volunteers, Issues,
Southeast – all different Carter committees.
Rep. Andy Young of Atlanta, Carter’s main
black supporter, entered and I shook his hand,
saying, “Welcome to New York”; like every
good politician, he pretended to know me from
somewhere else.

Bella Abzug came in with State Senator Carol


Bellamy after some Women’s Caucus. Bella
looked good, having lost some weight – but
she’ll always be recognizable for her hats.

Then the bright TV lights came on as I stood


near the door. Mrs. Carter – Rosalynn – came
in first. She’s a pretty slip of a woman. Then
Jimmy came in, and the crowd was electrified.
I was just a couple of feet away from him, but
Secret Service agents would hardly let you get
close. My first impression: his eyes were a
beautiful blue, very cold and determined – and
he seems a lot shorter in person.

If Carter was short, Congressman Peter Rodino,


who came to chat with him about the Vice
Presidency, is a really tiny man, terribly plain
and sweet-looking. I chatted with Carter
supporters, some very nice Udall delegates
from Iowa, and some members of the press –
who appear to outnumber delegates.

On my way out I saw anti-abortion presidential


candidate Ellen McCormick and her supporters
marching down Eighth Avenue.
Thursday, July 12, 1979

6 PM. Last night I went to the library again;


I’ve been spending time there every day.
When I got home I wrote about seven letters to
various book critics and reviewers. Perhaps I’m
doing more harm than good, but I feel it’s
important for me to do something.

It’s been nearly two months since the book first


appeared, but today was the first time I really
read it through, and I felt quite pleased. It’s
the book I wanted to write – maybe not me at
my best, but I think it’s good enough.

All night I was obsessed with thoughts of


getting my book publicized, and that kept me
from sleeping well. Dad startled me out of a
dream at 8 AM; I had to get up for my interview
at Queensborough. Because of the gas
shortage and inflation, it certainly isn’t my first
choice as a place to teach.

The ride, however, is pleasant, and the campus


is in suburban Bayside, in a new neighborhood.
The buildings are from the late ‘60s and early
‘70s – not quite as nice as Kingsborough, but
much better than Brooklyn College.

I arrived 90 minutes early and walked around


campus; then I sat down and read Hitler
because there seemed nothing else to do. My
interview was not with the English Department,
but with the Department of Basic Educational
Skills, which would be hiring me.
I was interviewed by a woman professor and
Jerald Nudelman, who co-authored the Steps in
Composition text I used with the BC veterans’
class. Their questions were straight-forward
and predictable: What errors did I find the
students making? How would I teach them to
eliminate fragments? Did I think anything
could be accomplished in one semester? They
don’t use the CUNY placement exam as an exit
test and their courses are graded Pass, Fail, or
Repeat.

I think I impressed them. They know I’m


looking for jobs at other CUNY schools, and of
course they won’t know about course
availability until registration after Labor Day.

I filled out a long personnel form for them, and


they’ll get in touch with me if they need me.
It’s really shitty, of course, always getting
called at the last minute, never having job
security – but I take it all philosophically. The
pay, after all, isn’t bad.

But in a way I’m glad I’m not teaching this


summer. I needed a break. Yesterday I ran
across Bruce Charlton, who is teaching at BC
now, and he says he needs to recharge his
battery.

I’ve been very careful with money this week.


Yesterday I spent less than five dollars and I
sold a book to Peter, so actually I came out
ahead.
There was an ad in the Courier-Life papers for
community editors; the new editor, Gary
Daniels, is looking for one for Flatlands. I
thought I’d apply, but then I figured I’d call
Ronna and see if she wanted it. She needs the
bylines more than I do – not that she had much
enthusiasm when I told her about it.

Ronna is not like Alice or me; she plods along


so slowly. I guess I also called Ronna because I
wanted to show her I’m a nice, generous guy
despite the fact that she treats me cavalierly.

It was hazy today and oppressively humid. I


took a quick dip in the pool this afternoon, but
mostly I exercised, overate and read in the
library.

Actually, I think it’s very healthy that I’m more


concerned with selling this book than writing
the next one. As Judith Appelbaum and Nancy
Evans point out in How to Get Happily
Published (my bible), some writers think it’s
undignified to hustle for their books. But if you
believe in what you write, wanting it to get out
to as many people as possible isn’t undignified.

I feel very sleepy now, filled with tuna and


bread and onions and carrots. I think I’ll take a
short snooze.
Wednesday, July 13, 1977

5 PM. So much seems to be going on. I


couldn’t get to sleep until 5 AM last night, as
my mind was whirring away with feelings,
thoughts, ideas.

I think I was angry with Avis because she didn’t


stay the same; that’s what she expected of me
too, but neither of us could stop growing in our
separate ways. It struck me, tossing and
turning in bed, that at 26, I have yet to learn to
let go.

I’ve always had this awful need to preserve


things as they were. That explains much of my
life: my writing, my living at home, my keeping
in touch with everyone, being the editor of the
Class Notes. I couldn’t give up Shelli and till
now I’ve been unable to give up Ronna.

In some respects I’ve been extremely


fortunate. Only one person that I’ve loved –
my great-grandmother – has ever died. And I
visit Bubbe Ita’s grave, her photograph is the
one on my desk, I write her, I track her family
in Canada down . . . I’ve never really accepted
her death twenty years ago. I realize now that
I’ve been half-expecting her to show up at the
door one day, looking the same as ever.

Perhaps Ronna merely wanted to preserve the


memory of our relationship and not put it out
of focus with the two people we’ve become in
the present. I must accept her desire to
terminate all contact with me, let her go, and
let myself go. I want to remember the Ronna I
loved, not some stranger.

Which reminds me: I wonder how Avis and


Scott are getting along together right about
now. I’m rather glad I’m not there. Though
neither of them would consider me an intruder,
I didn’t want to take away from their reunion,
however it goes. For once, I put other people
over my need to be an observer.

And I do have my own life. If, as Avis


suggested, we are turning into our parents, is
that so terrible? My parents, Avis’s, Scott’s,
Alice’s, Libby’s mother – they weren’t bad
people. They worked hard and tried to do the
right thing; if they made mistakes and behaved
badly, I like to think they couldn’t help it.

During the late ‘60s we were adolescents and


rightfully in rebellion. But now we’ve become
more tolerant. We want to change some things
and we’re trying to do it: Scott and Mikey
through the criminal justice system, Teresa
with her tenants’ association, Alan Karpoff
teaching retarded kids, even Elspeth working
for the police department, who are not quite
the fascist pigs we called them – they do help,
in many cases.

We couldn’t sit around LaGuardia Hall all our


lives, dreaming and gossiping. I do respect
Avis for her choices, but we all can’t leave the
country. My great-grandparents came to
America from Russia, where they had been
persecuted, and they got a measure of
freedom here.

There was discrimination, there were violations


of their rights, some terrible things happened
to them; they didn’t always prosper. It’s hard
to say this without sounding like Bob Hope or a
high school civics text, but I think I owe
something to America, and to New York City in
particular.

I spoke to Mikey about it last night. He just


quit after a week’s work as a Pinkerton guard
at the World Trade Center for a lousy $2.30 an
hour, which is terribly demeaning for someone
like Mikey, a law student with a graduate
degree in criminal justice, and a sign that the
system is not working. (There are many signs
like that today.)

But when I talked to Mikey about the scorned


1970 idea of “working within the system,” he
said in effect that there’s no alternative. And
he’s right. Enough preaching for a day.

Today I wrote some terrible stories (truly awful


ones): got some rejections (one was
devastating, using adjectives like “flatulent”
and “incomprehensible” to describe my
writing); got a postcard of Union Square in San
Francisco from Laura (“RG – I’m having fun –
LF”); had three cavities filled, floated in the
swimming pool; spoke to Vito and invited him
to the party next week (Scott had bumped into
him yesterday). It all may not be me living up
to my potential, but it’s the best I can do on
five hours’ sleep.

Friday, July 14, 1978

5 PM. Today I did nothing I should have.

I called up Josh yesterday afternoon and told


him my E. L. Doctorow story; he thought it was
great, but Josh likes thumbing his nose at the
Establishment. We went out to dinner together
at the Roll ‘n’ Roaster in Sheepshead Bay and
afterwards we came back to my house.

It’s nice seeing Josh once in a while. We got


out my boxing gloves, but Josh refused to take
off his glasses. I find it odd that someone who
in the abstract digs violence so much can’t
stand playful aggression.

I would love to have a male friend I could


confide in the way I confided in Shelli or Ronna.
And I would like to be physical with a guy.
Weirdly, when I was punching Josh yesterday
for a minute I could imagine myself in a
physical relationship even with him.

I wish I could see more of Elihu and talk to him,


even if he’s so into the gay bar scene,
something I’m not sure I want to be a part of.
Josh says Allan is working at a bar called The
Cockring. I don’t understand why a guy like
Allan, with a master’s degree in urban
planning, wants to do that with his life.

Oh well, here comes the nonjudgmental


disclaimer: Who am I to criticize anyone?

Josh and I seem to get along although there’s


tension between us. He has such a sour view
of people and life in general.

Josh thinks it’s very weird that I don’t have a


stereo and am not at all into music. I suppose
it shows something defective in my character,
but I could probably go without hearing
another note of music for the rest of my life
and never miss it.

Why did I never develop a taste for music, I


wonder? It certainly wasn’t my upbringing;
everyone else in the family is a music lover. I
guess I’m just totally tuned into words; the
songs I like, I like for their lyrics.

I awoke this morning to a cloudy, muggy day.


The balance of the weekend is supposed to
remain gloomy. I didn’t write today; I didn’t
call Dr. Tucker about teaching; I didn’t return
calls from Teresa or Mikey; I didn’t write
George or Ed Hogan.

The IBM broke, but they fixed it – something


electrical. The mail brought no acceptances
and no Epoch with my story in it, so I was
about to go to see if it had come in at the
Eighth Street when Marc asked if I’d go with
him to the World Trade Center, where he had
to pick up a pair of jeans at customs.

So we combined both errands and it went


smoothly although I never did find Epoch. On
the way back home via the Manhattan Bridge
and Flatbush Avenue, I tried the LIU library, but
the school is closed on Fridays in the summer.

Ronna is coming over this evening, and I hate


to say it after all these years, but I don’t like to
put a “kinnahora” on the evening by thinking
about it beforehand. Pure neurotic superstition,
I know, but that’s how I feel.

I’m still not content to let myself move along


with the tide. Yesterday I lay on the air
mattress in the pool and every few minutes I
got a twinge of panic to find myself just
floating. No wonder I never really learned to
swim, although I want to learn badly and wish
Libby was around to teach me.

Yesterday I got six copies of riverrun at the BC


Writing Center; the girl who gave them to me
looked at me funny and I felt embarrassed that
I had revealed so many intimate details of my
life in “Go Not to Lethe.” But she did ask me to
submit again next term.

I must be an exhibitionist, for I sent copies of


the story to Elihu, Mrs. Ehrlich and Brad. I want
people to remember me. I’m afraid of being
forgotten: my old terror of abandonment.
As I told Mrs. Ehrlich in my letter, I keep
thinking that one day I will go back into
therapy. I feel it’s necessary for me if I’m to
grow beyond a certain point.

I don’t need to search out the dark recesses of


my past for some secret, because by now there
aren’t any. I need therapy focusing on
everyday practical things – like why I’m
embarrassed to buy condoms.

Sunday, July 15, 1979

7 PM. Today has been another unbearably hot


and humid day. The sky was a sickly grey-
purple, so you couldn’t even get any sun. It
was hard to breathe, and I stayed indoors most
of the day, venturing out only to have lunch at
the Floridian and to drop off a copy of Hitler at
Ronna’s house (she wasn’t home).

I spent the day reading papers and magazines


and writing letters about my book to people
who may or may not be able to help me –
people like William Safire, who wrote about the
convertible top “up” or “down” question in his
column today but didn’t credit me with
originating the idea in my previous letter to
him.

I don’t know if my hustling is going to pay off,


but it does keep me occupied, and besides, it’s
a hell of a lot of fun. I see it as a deliciously
enjoyable game. It doesn’t matter so much
whether I win or lose; the important thing is
that I try my best not to let any opportunity slip
by and that I keep having fun.

I send out stories to little magazines with the


same enthusiasm. Getting acceptances was
delightful and getting rejections sometimes
was discouraging, but I liked the game of it.
Alice would understand – she’s a real
competitor – but most people I know would not.

At this point I have nothing to lose and


everything to gain, so I answer every want ad, I
write letters to everyone, I promote my book
with 80-proof chutzpah. A person like Ronna,
who lets opportunity slip through her fingers –
she’s always saying she’s about to rewrite her
résumé – wouldn’t understand.

Once I thought so many of my college friends


were special: not only Ronna, but Leon, Slade,
Stacy, others. I thought they would all be
famous or at least push themselves to be
successful. Yet most of them never even tried.

Alice is the exception. She’s a doer and will


continue to push herself, as I will. I like these
people, the ones who push themselves, and I
can understand why successful people and
celebrities tend to want to be with other
successful people and celebrities.

Crad Kilodney, Peter Cherches, Wesley Strick –


these are all people I admire for their self-
confidence and persistence. I admire it even
more in Alice, because it’s harder to do if
you’re female.

There was a story about Richard Price in the


Soho Weekly News in which he seemed
amused by the interviewer’s awe of him. From
what I’ve seen of him in person and in the
press, Price seems like a guy with his head
screwed on right. I admire him very much,
both for his writing and for the way he handles
success.

Another young couple came to see the house


today, and they appeared to be impressed.
But like yesterday’s potential buyers, they
need to consult their parents and have them
see the house, which means more guided tours
of Grayson Manor.

Hey, you know, the past week – a week in


which nothing much happened – has been one
of the most pleasant of my life. I really am
enjoying myself. In fact, I’ll bet that trying to
achieve success, this incessant struggling, is as
satisfying – probably it’s more satisfying – than
actually making it.

Tonight, after two weeks at Camp David,


President Carter tries to save his
administration with a very important speech on
the energy crisis, the declining economy, and
“the national malaise” we are in.

Oh, I wish he could rouse us up out of distrust


and apathy – I would like to believe in
something, to fight for something – but I think
that given the country’s mood, it’s impossible.

Saturday, July 16, 1977

8 PM. Somewhere there is a novel in all of this,


if only it would show itself. It was 96°
yesterday and 98° today.

I haven’t gotten to sleep before 4 AM in nearly


a week. My throat is scratchy, as though
there’s a film over it. My air conditioner keeps
icing over. I am playing with skin cancer, with
all kinds of cancer.

Virginia Woolf thinks we are all part of a novel,


and I suppose them’s my sentiments, too. Let
me write about other people for a while. I am
sick to death of Richard Grayson.

I hate him by now, this smug, overambitious,


moralizing neurotic whom I cannot quite make
come alive. He exists only on the surfaces of
paper. Only I am real. But let’s forget about
Grayson for now. A literary exercise: Complete
this diary entry without once using the word I.

Very well, we begin. (Uh, uh, that’s cheating.)

Avis was wearing a long skirt last night. To be


cool, she said.
Teresa looked tired. The subway ride home
from work had gotten to her.

Don, the live-in lover, fortyish vice president of


the New York Times Corporation, having left
wife and four kids in suburbia, was wearing
shorts. He looked the way he was supposed to
look: sexy in an avuncular backyard barbecue
kind of way.

There were some small silences, nothing


uncomfortable. The guests arrived too early.
They had smoked marijuana on the way to
Manhattan – at Avis’s behest, of course. Before
she enters Teresa’s apartment, Avis says
Teresa’s trouble is that “she never got into
dope.”

Spaghetti and meat (vaguely tough and too


chewy; one almost knew one should have
rehearsed the Heimlich maneuver) were served
with, strangely, rye bread. And German white
wine.

After dinner everyone retired to the air-


conditioned bedroom to make plans for the
party. It was decided to serve bagels and
white wine. “That should keep people up all
night,” Don said, and he informed Teresa that
he’d be away that night, visiting his kids.

Teresa wanted gossip; there was none.


Everyone discussed New York. Teresa didn’t
like the photos of the blackout looting going
out to the nation. A car’s burglar alarm stayed
on for twenty minutes, hypnotizing everyone,
and when it stopped, it seemed that all of West
85th Street cheered.

At midnight it was thought best to call it an


evening. Driving back on Flatbush Avenue,
Avis pointed out some evidence of looting. She
was walked to her door – look out for Son of
Sam – and kissed on the cheek.

Back at home, the garbage pails had not been


put out despite admonitions to younger
brothers and a note left as a reminder. A party
was going on downstairs. Marc and Deanna
slept in the master bedroom again (they are in
bed at this moment).

Today my unemployment check arrived, and it


was cashed after half an hour on line at the
bank. Alice came over, bringing my “birthday”
presents: a ream of Sphinx typing paper and
several envelopes for mailing out manuscripts.

She and Andreas are going to Paris in late


summer, and last night he agreed that they
should take an apartment in the city so they
can live together on weekends. Alice was so
happy she cried.

Bad News Department: Dolores has a


perforated uterus and has to have a total
hysterectomy. She’s really upset, of course,
and Alice says we should try to cheer her up.
First Janice’s mastectomy, now this:
something’s wrong somewhere.
Alice’s brother leaves for Iceland this week,
and she’s going to be spending time with him
before he goes.

Other news about other people: Avis reports


that Wade and Angelica have broken up. It’s
probably temporary; Wayne is making $230 a
week scrubbing bathrooms at St. John’s
University on the night shift.

Scott’s old girlfriend Sheila was hitchhiking


with a friend in South Africa and they got into a
terrible accident. Her friend was killed and
Sheila broke every bone below her waist. After
she testifies against the driver, she’s going to
London to stay with her parents, and Scott will
fly to England after his bar exams to see her.

It turns out that Jonny’s friend at the


synagogue is Mr. Denker, father of Milton,
Melvin and Mendy. I guessed it when Jonny
described the man.

Monday, July 17, 1978

10 PM. Last evening our neighbor Jerry


Bisogno came over with some old things he
found at his Uncle John’s house in Park Slope.
Uncle John was a “second-hand man” and
spent his life acquiring old things: his house is
full of antique clocks, potbellied stoves, old
books, papers, whatever.
Jerry brought over an old set of golf clubs and
some remarkable books: a copy of the play
Shylock (a version of The Merchant of Venice)
autographed by Sarah Bernardt; a navigator’s
guide from 1833; a poetry chapbook from
1918; and a collection of pocket-sized nickel
books, all classics of literature.

I’m fascinated by all that stuff, even by a


1950s girlie magazine which contained what
now seem like very tame shots of Jayne
Mansfield.

I wrote a rambling conversational story last


night: “What About Us Grils?” Then I slept
heavily and dreamed about TV, about that new
invention that enables you to get an insert of
one channel while watching another channel. I
also dreamed that a kind of instant Nielsen
rating told you just how many people were
watching each channel and that the
Republicans will pick up thirty House seats this
fall.

I didn’t want to get up till 10 AM. After


breakfast, I drove down to LIU, where I ran into
some of my old students, which was nice.
Somehow to be called “Mr. Grayson” and
recognized as a teacher helps my self-image.

Margaret said it looks as though all the courses


will hold, so there’ll be a class in something for
me starting next Monday.

I couldn’t call Dr. Tucker until the evening,


when I told him it would be impossible for me
to house-sit. He understood and was making
other arrangements. He told me he’d call me
on Thursday about teaching.

I stopped off at Grand Army Plaza on my way


home, combing issues of Seventeen for short
stories. The narrator in a Seventeen story
must be a girl, bright and funny and a little
unusual – not Miss Popularity – and there can
be no sex. I probably could write a story like
that, following some kind of formula.

Back at home, I was astonished to find yet


another story of mine had come out: “The Life
of Katz” in Maelstrom Review (formerly
Nausea). That makes four stories out in a
week – a record – and over seventy published
stories overall. I guess I’ll probably have a
hundred stories in print by this time next year.

Last night I went through copies of Fiction


Collective books and satisfied myself that no
one else had my publishing record at 27. So
what am I so worried about? Most Fiction
Collective authors didn’t have their first books
out until they were in their thirties.

I called Mikey and apologized for not calling


before, and we had a nice chat. Doctorow’s
lawyer Paul Asofsky called; obviously my letter,
mentioning his wife Maida, had reached him at
his law firm. It’s amazing how much trouble I
can cause. I kept him “on hold” (I just put the
receiver down) for ten minutes and then hung
up, saying, “I don’t talk to shyster lawyers.” I
bet I receive another letter.
Mikey said, in response to my question about a
“hypothetical” case, that it’s fraud to use
someone else’s stationery and signature
although it’s difficult to prove it. I hope E. L.
Doctorow doesn’t blackball me, if he does have
the power to do that. More than likely in a year
he’ll forget my name.

I suppose I have to act “respectably” now that


I’m getting more well-known. Boring, won’t it
be? Yet I really dislike the publicity-hound
aspect of my natures as much as I sometimes
admire my guts.

Sunday, July 18, 1976

8 PM. Aside from some heavy lifting, I did


nothing but goof off today, and I felt I was
entitled to do so.

Last night I worked for over two hours and


managed to come up with what I believe is a
passably good story, “Kirchbachstrasse 121,
2800 Bremen,” loosely based on Avis and
Helmut. The idea for the story has been in my
head for a long while, and I got the idea for the
form while reading Clarence’s Reflex and Bone
Structure.

Anyway, just to write two ten-page stories in a


single day was gratification enough for me; it’s
more than I’ve ever accomplished before and
makes me feel somewhat better.

All during the week I’d had the awful feeling I


was completely drained of ideas and would
never write another story again. This shows
me that slumps are natural and that creativity
occurs in spurts, not on a set time-schedule.

At midnight, after finishing typing up the story,


I fell into a deep sleep and awakened early this
morning. In summer, early mornings are the
best part of the day and I’ve been missing
them.

I drove out to Rockaway and put my car in Riis


Park, then walked to Neponsit and lay on my
towel at the beach there for some time. Then,
restless, I walked all the way to Mikey’s block,
where I found him on the porch.

He was waiting for Larry and Stuie to come


with Larry’s van so they could move his
furniture to Larry’s garage, where it will stay
for two weeks until Mikey moves into the
apartment he’s taken on West 23rd Street
between Seventh and Eighth Avenues across
from the Chelsea Hotel.

Mikey’s mother is moving to her new place on


Wednesday, and today Mikey took five carloads
of stuff across the street. Their apartment was
a mess, and both Mikey and his mother
seemed exhausted and disgusted with the
moving process.
It’s something I truly dread, and the logistics of
our family moving out of this house after nearly
twenty years are mind-boggling and stomach-
churning. Anyway, we did a lot of lifting and
groaning and complaining but we finally got
Mikey’s stuff outside, loaded onto the van and
into Larry’s garage.

Back at Mikey’s house, while Larry was taking


down the curtains – Larry is the ultimate
handyperson who can fix anything – Mike and
Mandy came over, too late to help very much.
We did get some more things done, and Mike
and Mandy and I went back to Larry’s, where
he was on the porch with friends.

Mike’s been working at Financial Aid at the


college and this past week he took off to learn
sign language for the deaf at NYU. Mandy’s
been offered a $200-a-week job at another
insurance agency, and she can’t turn down the
money even though she likes her present
office.

We sat around Larry’s house and we got ice


cream and then I walked on the beach to join
Stuie and Anne and Mikey. Mikey looked very
tired; because of the tuition business, he’s
been working very late at John Jay and that
hasn’t made things easier.

I left at 3 PM and walked along the beach to


Riis Park. Luckily the traffic was light coming
back from the beach at that hour, so I was able
to get some more sun at the pool (and I went
into the water some, too). I’ve now revived my
bronze look sufficiently.

Actually, I know I look really good; I’m finally


becoming unselfconscious about my physique.
My body is fairly firm and I think I might even
be attractive. I know I got a few stares when I
passed the gay section of Riis Park, though all
the guys there turned me off; they look the
same, full of cotton candy and pipe-cleaners.

Alice came by today while I was away and left


me a batch of Seventeen magazines (so I can
look at the fiction) and some review copies of
books that came into the office.

Tuesday, July 19, 1977

4 PM. It’s an unbearable 102° now and the


temperatures are breaking all records.

It was hot when I went to pick up Avis


yesterday; her father was talking to her
outside. She told me that he had just come
from his monthly chemotherapy treatment.
He’d taken along his father-in-law, and while
they were waiting for the results of his blood
test, Avis’s grandfather went to look up some
of his old black customers downtown where he
used to sell appliances on time.
The 83-year-old man climbed up four flights of
stairs to look up a woman known as Mother
Brown. She recognized him immediately and
got so excited you’d have thought she was
going to have a heart attack.

Then she started crying: “Oh, Mr. Glass! I’m so


old!”

“How old are you?” Avis’s grandfather asked.

“Eighty.”

“Why, you’re younger than I am!” he said.


“Not so old.”

Avis’s grandfather keeps asking her the price


of things in Bremen; he’s pretty sharp for his
age.

We were at the International Arrivals Building


at Kennedy an hour early, so we went to the
cocktail lounge, where Avis had two beers and I
had a ginger ale. We talked about this and
that, lovely little things; the time passed
quickly, and by 7 PM, the Laker flight had
arrived and we waited downstairs at Customs.

One could write so much about the


International Arrivals Building, but I’ll just give
one anecdote: an elderly lady decried the
effusiveness of disembarking Alitalia
passengers who kissed and hugged and
screamed. “You’ll find the English coming off
the Laker flight far better-behaved,” she said.
Marc was waiting for Mom and Dad at the other
end of the Customs exit; their flight also
arrived at 7 PM, but they came out first and so
I was there to see them.

My parents looked tanned, young, refreshed:


the way I’ve seen them come out of Customs a
dozen times over the years. I kissed them,
they introduced me to some friends, and I said
I’d see them later and went back to Avis, who
was starting to get worried.

But Helmut soon emerged from the whitened-


over doors and Avis gave him a restrained kiss.
He was wearing a leather jacket and didn’t
want to take it off despite our warnings about
the heat.

I hadn’t expected Helmut to look so well. His


hair wasn’t very long, and it’s such a nice blond
color; he’s tall – is he ever! – and thin and very
handsome. He remembered my car and we
began driving towards Brooklyn. Helmut spoke
English slowly, with a terrifically nice German
accent I wish I could put down on paper as
dialogue.

He’s very bright, too; we were driving up


Flatbush Avenue (he said, “It’s always easiest
for you to go that way, eh?”) and Avis was
asking me about the new telephone checking
accounts and how they worked. I told her you
used a code word, and Helmut said, “A
commercial mantra?” – and at that moment I
knew why Avis loved him.
We got to the Judsons’ house, where Libby and
her mother were watching TV in the living
room, and Wade and Angelica – reunited, if
only temporarily – came downstairs.
Everybody was glad to see us.

Libby told me she was grateful to have the


chance to ride home with Josh on Sunday
because in college she’d had a crush on him.

Libby also told me about the problem of her


friend (I think it’s Tommy, whom I met at the
hospital and really liked) who can’t decide if
he’s straight or gay; he tried going to a gay bar
and it depressed him, so he’s going to try to
put homosexuality out of his mind. (Good luck
with that!)

We went outside on the stoop, Helmut, Avis,


Libby and I, and we ate ice cream and smoked
some of the grass Avis bought from Marc
yesterday. Helmut told us about his
adventures in London with their friends Clive
and Wladimir; he’s a great storyteller.

We talked about Vonnegut and the SPD and


nuclear energy and other things; Helmut asked
me what “the trends” were here. We went
back inside, and looking at American TV
through Helmut’s eyes, I see how ridiculous it
all must seem, especially the commercials and
Eyewitness News.

With Wade at work by then, Helmut and I had


to bring the foldaway bed downstairs. As it got
late, I took Angelica and Avis home and got
back at midnight myself.

Friday, July 20, 1979

5 PM. I’m writing this now because I have just


finished a beautiful novel, Andrew Holleran’s
Dancer from the Dance, a kind of Great Gatsby
about the ‘70s gay disco circuit, and also
because I would rather not watch NewsCenter
4 and hear about Carter’s Cabinet firings and
the elevation of the Georgia Mafia; Carter killed
any advantage Sunday night’s speech gave
him.

But mostly I’m writing this now because this is


one of those rare moments when life seems
more like a novel than life. July 20, 1969, was
ten years ago, a Sunday that was humid and
when I spent most of the day in the same room
I am now, the same air-conditioner humming,
the same view of brick houses and London
plane tress from my window.

That night there were those fuzzy, static


pictures of the moon and the clumsy
astronauts and Walter Cronkite and Nixon on
the phone and someone had diarrhea and Aunt
Sydelle called, wondering if she had woke us
up.

The next day I felt awful, it was dark, Mom


drove me to Kings Highway, where I bought the
Times with its headline MEN WALK ON MOON
(it is still in my closet somewhere) and the East
Village Other with that ad from Brad which I
answered: “Hello, I am an 18-year-old neurotic.
. .”

That day I made Mom drive me to Mary Queen


of Heaven Church and I dipped my fingers into
the holy water, crossed myself, knelt down and
prayed. I have to close my eyes just to think
about it.

Where am I a decade letter – later – with ten of


these National Time-Line Diaries (#55-148) in
my drawer? Don’t get melodramatic, baby,
just answer the question.

I mailed out my xeroxed pleas to bookstore


owners this morning. I had breakfast at Jentz
with Josh and remembered why I never eat
pancakes anymore.

Wesley called to say he and Marla were going


to his mother’s at Bridgehampton this
weekend, could they could here next week,
and would I go to his show an East Side bar
called Eric’s on August 2nd and try to get Alice
to review it for Our Town? Yes, yes, I said, Yes.

I got sunburned.

Crad wrote me a beautiful letter about how


horrible it is to sell his book on the streets of
Toronto and face a public of robots, idiots,
madmen and machines.
Stacy surprised me with a long letter, a friendly
one (she said it was nice to see a familiar face
at the Gay Pride March), and she said she was
happy for me and that I should get in touch
with her at her job at Brooklyn College.

I spent two and a half hours reading


newspapers and magazines in the public
library. Taplinger sent me the second half of
my advance.

Michelle Herman, a fiction writer, and a friend


of Harvey’s, called me after I wrote her to
solicit from fiction. She’s 24, from Brooklyn
(Madison and BC), edits freelance, has Maxine
Groffsky for an agent (she’s sending around an
anthology of father/
daughter stories and is trying to get Michelle to
write a novel). It turns out that we’ve been
living the same life, almost.

Rick Peabody thanks me for imagined


kindnesses and tells me to call him at Averill
Harriman’s house but to ask for Gretchen since
she (the Harrimans’ cook) is keeping him there
surreptitiously. My father told me about a man
he jogs with at Marine Park who is planning,
God knows why, to run from Brooklyn to
Detroit next year.

I got a call from Marie Stein to ask my advice


on something I know nothing about: what price
she should ask for a technical editing job. The
Secretary of State of New Hampshire sent me a
package of petitions so I can get on the ballot
in next year’s Vice-Presidential preference
primary.

Teresa’s going to Fire Island tomorrow and


giving a bridal shower for Jan on Sunday; she’s
organizing Jan’s two weddings: one in Texas
August 4th and a big one for her family back in
Ohio in October.

I ate, went to the bathroom, squeezed a pimple


under my scalp, read until my eyes ached,
exercised, stared too long at certain strangers I
found attractive, dreamed about some Indian
summer picnic, had doubts about the present
course I am pursuing. Tomorrow I see my
psychologist and get interviewed about my
candidacy for Vice President of the United
States.

Punch line: Has anything changed in the past


decade?

Saturday, July 21, 1979

11 PM. Life is going so quickly, but at least I’m


enjoying myself.

Last night I immersed myself in all the material


I’ve received from the Federal Election
Commission, so as to prepare for the interview.
I thought about the inequities of the present
electoral process, the press and media’s
attention to trivia, the long grueling obstacle
course of primaries, the low voter turnout, and
I decided I wanted to make some Serious Point
about the system.

At 9 AM, I got a call from Mary Ann Muccio; her


allergies were very bad and she asked me to
come at 3 PM instead. Fine. I got back into
bed for another two hours, as I had slept much
too lightly all night because I knew I’d have to
get up early.

At 11 AM the mail arrived: a manuscript from


Carolyn Bennett and three letters. Epoch’s
fiction editor asked me to submit a story for
their fall issue; I did. The editor of Connecticut
Fireside, Albert Callan, said he’s going to do a
review of Hitler (I had written him about it).

And I finally got a letter from George. I had


thought he was very angry at me, but the only
thing that he was mad about was that X: A
Journal of the Arts didn’t get credit for the
jacket copy on Hitler. I’ll explain how that was
done after the copyright page had already
been set. He liked my book; oddly, the Family
and Women sections appealed to him most.

George is now working on the morning


Harrisburg paper, the Patriot, from 4 PM till
1:30 AM, with only Tuesdays and Wednesdays
off. He tries to sleep to noon and ends up
“walking around dazedly in my underwear and
watching the soaps.”

Seeing his byline is gratifying, and the Patriot is


more news and less feature-y than the
afternoon Evening News, on which he had been
working:

“About the paper: No one knows this but a few


people at the plant, and I’d appreciate if you
didn’t tell Ronna about this. . . I’ll be a staff
writer for no more than two years, then I’ll
move on to some other part of the paper,
business, circulation, then into a management
position. I’m being ‘groomed’ for publisher,
yes, crazy as that sounds. . .

“New York is already aware of my grooming


and in favor of it. I think I’d been trying to
ignore it, in case it doesn’t work out.” George
sent along an article he wrote on small presses
in which I was mentioned.

I had a good session with Dr. Pasquale; he’s


beginning to know me well. We like each
other, and he’s bright enough to keep up with
me. We talked about how success is in large
point revenge, and how I’m afraid people will
find out I’m an angry, hostile person, not Mr.
Nice Guy. Intellectually, I’m aware that there’s
little basis for that fear in reality, but I’m not
quite sure of it emotionally.

Ms. Muccio came over at 3 PM. I gave her


Perrier water and we sat in the kitchen and she
interviewed me for half an hour. She took lots
of notes, and I tried to sound intelligent. She
took a photo of me, I gave her some xeroxed
documents, and she said she’d call me
tomorrow if there are any loose ends.
It was a pleasant experience, being
interviewed; I think I came off well, but we’ll
have to wait for the article.

I visited Grandma Ethel and Grandpa Herb


tonight. They’ve read the book and are a little
embarrassed over the portraits of the
grandparents in it. Grandma Ethel thinks they
are going to arrest her because I revealed she
picks off price labels until she gets to the
lowest price. After reading the book, they’re
also very worried I will starve to death.

Dad’s 53rd birthday was today and he, Mom


and Jonny went out to a Charles Aznavour
concert tonight. Oddly, Jonny and I ended up
separately buying Dad the same exact card.

Thursday, July 22, 1976

8 PM. I feel worn out. I’ve been working pretty


hard even though I’m enjoying myself.
Sometimes I wonder whether my obsession
with achievement is counterproductive. I push
myself into doing things immediately; I hate
my own discipline, as hard as a Marine
sergeant’s at boot camp.

But without similar obsessions, would Jimmy


Carter have been nominated for President a
week ago? Would the athletes be winning their
gold medals at the Montreal Olympics? Would
we be seeing those awesome pictures of the
Martian landscape, taken by cameras on
Viking? The answer is implicit in my self-
serving questions.

Last evening we managed to make Dad’s 50th


birthday a good one. All five of us – including a
reluctant Jonathan – went out for a sumptuous
dinner at O’Reilley’s Steak House on Church
Avenue.

The meal was fantastic, from the delicious


chopped steak with fried onions to the
vegetables and salad and rosé wine and creme
de menthe. We ate with real gusto. I no
longer worry about indigestion and so I dug in
as heartily as anyone. You know with a little
more money and class, I might have become a
real gourmet (or is it gourmand? I never
know).

Later in the evening we had a cake and


balloons and presents, with party favors and a
lot of laughter. The strain of the previous
evening was not in evidence, and I think Dad
enjoyed himself; he knows age is just a state of
mind.

But he still has no idea where all the months


and years went; sometimes he thinks of events
in his childhood happening only last week or
even the day before yesterday.

I went into the CCLM office at 11 AM this


morning, parking my car when it became legal
(the alternate side rules are 8-11 AM) on Bank
Street and Greenwich Avenue and walking up
to Eighth Avenue and 14th Street.

I read through over thirty magazines for the


contest today, making my way through the
remainder of the undergraduate publications.
After scouring these things, my main
impression as a preliminary judge is of the
enormous talent, energy and wit alive among
college students.

Some of their literary achievements stunned


me with their brilliance, and the “poorer”
magazines are generally full of competent
work; there are very few dreadful entries. I
feel at a loss as a writer to try to compete with
creative writers and artists I read; my own
work is not that much better than this stuff and
in some cases, it’s obviously inferior to these
stories and poems.

The trouble is that I’m afraid many of these


resourceful, talented kids will find no outlet in
the “real” world, unless they join the ranks of
the small press/little magazine people.

Coming home at 4 PM, I typed up a short story,


“Triptych,” which I astounded myself by writing
last night when I was unable to sleep. A
completely instinctive story, I feel it succeeds
on its own terms.

I got a rejection from Esquire’s quirky Gordon


Lish. He said I should “low down – relax – take
it easy.” That’s what I mean by trying too
hard. Perhaps a writer can write too much.
I’ve been keeping in touch with Alice, who still
can’t seem to get Jim out of her mind.
Obviously he affected her a great deal. Last
night Alice was rereading Howie’s old love
letters to cheer herself up; luckily, her job is a
wonderful tonic for her.

Teresa wrote me from California. She was in


New York in June, but her father and
grandmother were in the hospital and she went
back to Palo Alto soon after they got better.
She’s on unemployment now and feels a little
out of it and is thinking of going back to school.

I wrote Peggy Humphreys in New Mexico and


sent her copies of my published stories.

Sunday, July 23, 1978

8 PM. Life is so short. (Why not begin with a


cliché?) And I don’t understand it and there
are tears in my eyes now and I’m not sure I
have been a very good person, but who knows?
When I look over the past weekend, I feel
happy and sad at the same time.

This afternoon and in the terribly obsessive


heat and humidity, Ronna and I slept in my air-
conditioned room, on this bed I am lying on
now. I held her and it was perfect; just looking
up, with thoughts and colors floating through
my mind, I wondered why it couldn’t be like
that forever.
My whole life, I see now, has been an attempt
to turn those moments into forever. It’s an
impossible job, yet I want to go on trying,
having fun, writing another nine years of
journal entries, living.

So I’m not afraid of teaching tomorrow night or


of moving to Albany or of doing many things,
because I am approaching a level of
acceptance of myself and of other people.

Not everyone will like me; Michael Largo of


New Earth Books thinks I’m a perfect bastard,
and I can understand and sympathize with his
point of view. I was unfair to him, but I just
couldn’t be both fair to him and fair to myself,
and I had to pick myself in the end.

Yesterday, Saturday, I woke up feeling


energetic – until I went out in the oppressive
air. (Why did I write obsessive a few lines
back?) It was not a day to go to the beach.

I did drop by Ronna’s house to bother her for a


while. I told her about Albany, and she was
pleased for me. She said Susan told her I could
drop by for dessert, but she didn’t have
enough food to go around to serve me dinner.
I told Ronna that maybe I would, so that she
wouldn’t have to take the subway home.

I came home and went in the pool with my


parents and Marc and Deanna and Deanna’s
brother Edward, who is 16 and weighs only 80
pounds, and whom Dad was attempting to
teach to swim (successfully, it turned out).

I surprised myself by having fun, feeling very


energized by the water and the splashing and
the fun. Deanna’s parents stopped by, and
Mom and Dad got to meet them for the first
time.

At 5 PM Teresa called from Mt. Sinai Hospital.


She had been admitted in the morning. All
week Teresa had these incredible abdominal
pains and a fever; on Saturday they took her to
the doctor who found Teresa’s white blood
count three times normal. He suspected
appendicitis, though Teresa wasn’t nauseated,
and put her in the hospital.

They did tests and gave her ampicillin; she was


taken off food and put on IV so she’d be empty
in case they had to operate. I told Teresa I’d
come over that night, and so I called Ronna
and told her that I could drop her off at Susan’s
on my way uptown. (I just found one of
Ronna’s long brown hairs on my bed and I have
wound it around my finger.)

Teresa looked very good when I saw her; her


parents had just left, and Lance from next door
was with her, as he had been all afternoon. I
showed Teresa my Page Six article and joked
with Lance that he could have my tan too (he’d
envied it) if he didn’t spend all day sleeping
and all night sleeping around.
I massaged Teresa’s neck and tried to keep her
mind off hunger and her pains. Lance and I
always fun when we see each other; he likes
me and I’ve always had a crush on him.

When the nurse came in to take Teresa’s


temperature and blood pressure and do other
stuff, Lance and I went up to the solarium and
leaned against the edge, looking down at the
unexpected green lush beauty of Central Park.

I discussed my anxiety attacks, knowing that


Teresa has had them too, making me worried
about her being in a hospital.

When we got back to her room, I lay in


Teresa’s hospital bed and tried to feel how it
would be to be in one as a patient; Teresa and
Lance sat in chairs, laughing. Lance swiped a
hospital gown and put it in his satchel for me; I
have it now.

We stayed till 10 PM, two hours after visiting


hours ended, and Teresa and her portable IV
machine walked us to the elevators. Lance
hadn’t eaten all day, so we went to the Burger
King on Broadway and 83rd. Lance’s very
handsome, but if I slept with him I’d be only
one of a hundred or more.

And I can’t tell if he lies a lot. He said his


album comes out in August and he’s now in
rehearsal for an NBC TV movie, What’s a Pretty
Young Thing Like You..., directed by David
Lean; Lance said he stars as a boy destined to
be murdered by a pickup in a Christopher
Street bar (“Sort of a Looking for Mr. Gaybar,”
he said). Lance claims he doesn’t like show
business and says he’s going to give it up.
Huh?

I just left him saying, “Find something you


want to do and then do it.” (Question: Why
don’t straight people have proclivities?)

I drove down to the East Side and at 33rd


Street, I ran Susan’s bell. They had just
finished dinner and I walked in on a strange
scene. Apparently Joe, who had been John’s
lover, had just stormed out after taking offense
to a remark John had made.

They thought when the bell rang, it was Joe


coming back. I didn’t quite understand it all,
and Joe finally came back, but before that I got
to eat dessert with the others. It was nice to
see Evan again after years; he remembered
that we first met on our first day of Brooklyn
College on the Flatbush Avenue bus at Avenue
N.

Ronna was quiet, and when we finally left,


thanking Susan and saying goodbye to
everyone, we had a pleasant ride home down
Flatbush Avenue. She wanted to come back to
my house even though it was late, and we
went upstairs and of course we’re still pretty
attracted to each other and we ended up
making love, which was slow and sweet and
beautiful.
There isn’t really a future for our relationship,
but it doesn’t seem to matter to either of us
now. Ronna and I still care a lot about each
other.

I didn’t take her home until 3:30 AM, which is


why I’ve been utterly useless all day, waking
up past noon and then doing very little that
was productive. But last night was really nice.

Sunday, July 24, 1977

2 PM. Last night’s party left me feeling a little


down. Oh, I suppose it was a success in that
people seemed to be having a good time. All
of my good friends seemed to be present.

But here was no need, finally, for me to drive


anyone home, and driving back to Brooklyn
alone at 2 AM made me feel out of it and
useless.

Why couldn’t I feel at home in the presence of


my friends? And if I couldn’t feel at home
there, will I ever be able to feel at home
anywhere?

When Lance, one of Teresa’s gay neighbors,


found out I lived with my parents, he looked
astonished, in the manner of one would expect
from someone hearing a confession of murder.

“Why?”
“Because I’m peculiar,” I snapped, and he
nodded his head in agreement.

Then Don came over to me with a bottle of


beer, pinching my paunch and announcing that
he and I were both “fatties,” unlike Helmut,
who could put away kegs of beer without
putting on a gram.

Mikey mentioned that he’d been with Mike and


Mandy the night before and that they were
preparing for their wedding, which he will
attend. Even though I’ll be at Bread Loaf then,
I still feel bad I wasn’t invited. (Of course, I
didn’t invite them to last night’s party, either.)

Do people wonder about my living at home,


about my dubious sexuality, about whether I’m
capable of love? Well, let me dwell on some of
the nicer aspects of the evening:

I picked up Avis and Helmut at 6 PM; they were


having coffee with Libby’s mother. We drove
up to Teresa’s, stopping on the way to buy
Beck’s Beer, brewed in Bremen.

Helmut worked in the brewery once, and later


in the evening he would be drinking out of a
bottle and musing that perhaps he’d once seen
that very bottle pass by him on the assembly
line in Germany.

With Teresa, we three got stoned before the


others arrived, and I got giggly, which made
my stomach feel better. Teresa’s neighbors
were pretty nice, and it was good to have Alice
and June there; I hope they enjoyed
themselves. They brought a watermelon.

Elspeth and Elihu came, and Mikey. Libby


arrived later; David Whitman was there; and
even Mason showed up, a pleasant surprise.
Helmut charmed everyone, I’m sure. If I were
capable of being jealous of him, I would be, but
he is too nice.

We decided that he’s going to win the Nobel


Prize in Biology the same year I win it in
Literature and we’re going to wear tuxedos,
top hats and canes and shock the Swedish
Academy by singing and dancing to “There’s
No Business Like Show Business.”

Alice spoke to him for a long time, about her


visits to Germany and his previous trips to
America; he told Alice how he used to wiggle
his ass and let his long blond hair fly in the
breeze so men would stop and give him lifts; a
tattooed sailor in New Orleans offered to give
him money to live on for a year.

Teresa was an excellent hostess, and the


bagels went over well. When Don arrived, I
noticed Elspeth say, through clenched teeth, to
Elihu: “It reminds me of Network” – meaning
Faye Dunaway’s affair with the older, married
William Holden, whom Don, oddly enough,
does resemble.

Mason said he’s enjoying working at the camp


for the blind and deaf; Libby was surprised that
Tommy had taken her to see Judy Collins as
their date tonight; Mikey said he’s going to
give up job-hunting for the summer if he
doesn’t find something soon.

June told us of having lunch with Laura, an


editor of a trade publication. She confirmed
my suspicion that Laura turned a bit strange
after graduation. Vito didn’t show up; I was
sorry about that.

At about 10 PM Teresa and I looked at each


other and expressed surprise that the party
was going so well. People didn’t start leaving
until 12:30 AM, and I was among the last to
leave.

Nobody needed a lift (Mason, with a car, and


Helmut and Avis and of course Libby were all
staying with the Judsons in the Slope; Alice got
a ride back to Brooklyn with Elspeth and Elihu),
and although everyone probably felt I was glad
not to have to chauffeur people around for a
change, it only made me feel superfluous.

I took photos of everyone (did I need proof I


have friends?) and lent Teresa my camera so
she and Don could use it on their vacation trip
to Canada.

Grandpa Nat is not responding. Now they think


he had a stroke as well as a heart attack.

Sunday, July 25, 1976


8 PM. “Today is always the present; it is
sometimes the future; it is very often the past.”
That’s the opening sentence of a story. I don’t
have the story to go with it yet. I feel
somewhat guilty about goofing off this
weekend and not doing any writing. I have
ideas; however, ideas not carried out remain
only in one’s head.

Right now I’m more interested in a couple of


things. One is “A Conventional Life,” my
impressions of the Democratic conventions of
1968, 1972 and 1976, weaving my personal
journey with the political climate.

I’m afraid most of my writing is terribly self-


indulgent. But if I can make my particular
situation part of a larger whole, maybe this
piece won’t be so narcissistic.

I have a title for another story: “The Joe Colletti


Fan Club, Joe Colletti, President” – but no story.
And something else I’d like to do would be a
kind of family journal, taking in the events of
the lives of my parents, grandparents and
great-grandparents – but I don’t yet have a
form in which to place the raw material.

I’ve also been thinking of using the Jewish


legend of the Lamed-Vov, the 36 saints who
live in secret, always there to protect the
Jewish people. I have a sense of myself writing
in a distinctively Jewish-American tradition.

Last evening I went to have dinner at the


counter of the Ram’s Horn, as I had dinner the
night before at the Charcoal Chef. I love eating
dinner alone at the counter of diners; it gives
me a feeling of independence, a chance to
think.

Then I went over to visit Grandpa Herb;


Grandma Ethel was out playing cards, so the
two of us sat on the terrace for hours, watching
the beach and watching day turn into night, as
Grandpa Herb told me tales of the past.

I never tire of his stories, and there always


seem to be new ones: about his Brownsville
childhood, about his Army years in Manila,
about his father and mother, who have nearly
become mythical figures to me.

I’d always known that Grandma Ethel became


very ill after Marty was born, hemorrhaging
after the Caesarean delivery. Her mind
became unbalanced, Grandpa Herb said, and
one day the doctor called him to the hospital.

Grandpa Herb stood at the bus stop outside the


psycho ward of Kings County Hospital and had
a funny feeling, a premonition he’d be coming
back there.

When he met the doctor, the man told Grandpa


that Grandma Ethel had attempted to strangle
him while he was examining her. She’d
grabbed his necktie and the doctor was
choking; Grandma’s grip was so strong that a
nurse had to cut the necktie with scissors.
The doctor advised Grandpa to put Grandma in
the psycho ward at Kings County, that she was
too violent to be anywhere else. They took her
there in a strait jacket.

For weeks she stayed there, and whenever


Grandpa came, she begged him to take her out
of the “crazy house,” where terrible things
occurred.

At this time Bubbe Ita was taking care of the


infant Marty, and Grandpa’s father advised him
to “break up” his house and move in with
them, letting Grandma come to stay.

Grandpa slept with Grandma with a cord tied


around each other’s legs, so he could tell if she
moved during the night. She never did
anything violent again, “but she had a strange,
wild look in her eyes” and Mom was terrified of
her. (This trauma might go a long way in
explaining Mom’s neuroses.)

Grandma would only look at baby Marty from a


distance, but gradually she began to take an
interest in things.

She started to help Bubbe (Grandpa said that


his mother was the person in the world whom
Grandma loved the most), and finally, one day,
she looked out the window and saw that the
hired nurse had Marty outside under-dressed,
and she went out to take care of him. From
then on, she accepted him.
A very strange story. I can’t picture saintly
Grandma Ethel being violently insane.
Grandpa Herb claims it was from lack of blood,
the hemorrhaging at the Caesarean.

Today I sat in the sun, read, and got numerous


rejections and sent out the rejected stories
again.

Monday, July 26, 1976

7 PM. Alice came over late yesterday; Andreas


is on another trip to Europe, so she had the
evening free. Jim never responded to her
letter, not even to acknowledge it, so Alice is
gamely trying to put him behind her.

She seems totally happy with her job at


Seventeen. Alice and her boss, Annette Grant,
whom she says is “a living doll,” went to see
Saturday Night Live together and they had a
good time.

Last evening Alice and I decided to see a


trashy movie and we went to Georgetowne to
see Lifeguard, which was only good for looking
at bodies and laughing at the stilted,
predictable dialogue.

I went to bed at 10 PM so I could arrive early


and get to the bank; I’m badly in need of the
$150 check from CCLM that should forestall
compete bankruptcy for a while. After that, I
went to BC, to get the $6 check from Felicia
Weinberg that I needed to have Junction
copyrighted.

I also xeroxed copies of the Time magazine


coverage of the ’68 and ’72 Democratic
conventions, to refresh my memory for “A
Conventional Life.” I’ve got to be careful not to
load it down with news items; I want it to be
my impressions (which is why I don’t intend to
read the journalism of Mailer or anyone like
him).

This morning about fifteen phone calls arrived


for Marc, from the sleaziest, rudest, stoned-
sounding people. I have a feeling Marc is
heavily into some kind of illegal activity, most
probably selling drugs.

I just hope he sticks to dealing in the soft stuff.


The characters he’s associating with are like
the scum of the earth; they’re so coarse and
repulsive. Grandpa Herb and Grandma Ethel
were over today, and Grandpa Herb said he
hopes Marc isn’t making a big mistake.

Marc has always had this idea that you can get
something for nothing; he believes in making a
fast buck without hard work, and that can only
lead to trouble. I almost feel like referring to
Marc as my “ne’er-do-well brother.” Mom and
Dad don’t seem overly concerned.

Marc and his friends gamble every night,


playing cards until late; most of them are on
unemployment and are uneducated. Some,
like Alan, Steven and Joey are pretty nice guys,
though.

But it’s none of my business anyway. I went to


CCLM this afternoon and handed in my final
report to Jane. She took me in to meet Eleanor
Shakin, the executive director, and we
discussed various ideas to make the college
literary magazine contest more meaningful.

Eleanor left us to take a call from CCLM


chairman Ron Sukenick, who later asked to
speak with me. On the phone, I told Ron that
the Fiction Collective office move was up in the
air and discussed the state of various
circulating manuscripts and the reviews Jon’s
Babble has received.

Ron seemed concerned that George Chambers


may not want his novel published with us after
all, because of the cost. Evidently Ron and
George are friends. (I wonder if that came
about before or after Ron reviewed George’s
Bonnyclabber so favorably in the Times Book
Review.)

Julie and Jane told me to drop by the CCLM


office any time to browse around in their
library with its hundreds of magazines.

I received so many form rejection notices today


it was very disheartening. Tonight at dinner
Dad told me he may need me to help him clear
out the office this week; he brought home a lot
of stationery for me.
Dad sarcastically said he went to see his
“brother” tonight; Lennie says he thinks of Dad
as his brother. When he got home Dad said
that Lennie introduced him to his latest
“protégé,” whom he’s taking to The Raleigh
next week.

Lennie is a “mentor” to all these cute young


kids; except for Mom and Dad and maybe
George Gilbert and Totie Fields, he has no
friends his own age. I guess he can afford to
buy the love or whatever of handsome
undereducated young men.

I’ve wanted to write a story about Lennie for


years, but I don’t because it would upset Mom
and Dad.

Thursday, July 27, 1978

It’s 10 PM and I think I know where my adult is.

I’ve been coping better than I expected to. The


first week of summer school is over and there
are only five more weeks to go. I was a good
teacher tonight and last night, and my
students responded as well as I could expect
five adults who’ve worked a long hot, humid
day in their jobs to, and I’m not nervous
anymore.

Yesterday I decided to drive to LIU along the


Belt Parkway instead of down Flatbush Avenue
so I could get the shore breeze. My heart leapt
into my head when a police car began chasing
me with its siren going – but it was after some
guy on a motorcycle.

That got my adrenalin going, and in a funny


way it released my all my anxieties about
teaching. I parked on Montague Street and
had dinner at Picadeli; coming out of the
restaurant, I saw Elihu.

He almost didn’t recognize me. “You look


different,” Elihu said. I know he meant I looked
better – and I do: I don’t think I’ve ever looked
better in my life.

We had a nice long talk. Elihu teaches until


5:30 PM on Mondays to Wednesdays so I may
have someone to meet before class.

Last night’s class on Bartleby went well, as I


said, and tonight’s discussion was even better.
Sometimes I surprise myself by saying smart
things. Rereading Notes from Underground, I
now come to it with a writer’s perspective and I
pick up technical things in the narration.

Gosh, I would love to reread all of Dostoevsky


again, just as I did in Prof. Roberts’ class five
years ago. Now I get ideas and questions for
my own work; for example, is honesty – no
matter how self-lacerating – enough anymore?
I think not.

Oh, it makes me want to go back to school as a


student again. I want to learn so much more. I
have a tremendous appetite for learning.
I’ve been sleeping well and my bowels are
back to normal. I even went swimming for an
hour this afternoon just before leaving, and
because it was hot, I drove to school shirtless.
I’m not afraid to be myself anymore just
because I’m in the role of teacher to older
adults.

Yes, I am happy. Now that I am aware of my


apprehensions about moving to Albany, I can
work on them; maybe I’ll even take a few
therapy sessions in the fall.

I haven’t been writing, but that will come in


time – and after all, I did write a 15-pager, a
good one, last Friday.

I feel more comfortable with the idea of living


in Albany. Somehow, when my bus to and
from Vermont stopped there last August, I felt
I’d lived in Albany before. Or maybe it was
that I knew I would be living there in the future.
Anyhow, I felt comfortable immediately and
that’s a rare feeling for an agoraphobic like me.

Arlyne and Marty were upset because Grandma


Ethel so passively accepted her doctor’s
diagnosis of skin cancer, so they got a
dermatologist at the same hospital to look at
Grandma Ethel’s chart.

On it, he found three possible diagnoses:


allergy to medication, psoriasis, and
predisposition to malignancy.
Grandma Ethel had heard the word cancer and
got frightened and neither she nor Grandpa
Herb questioned the doctors. They view
physicians (and lawyers and government
officials) as gods, not to be challenged. Arlyne
said they shouldn’t see doctors alone if that’s
how they are.

I believe, like Wayne Dyer, that doctors must


be challenged. I certainly wouldn’t take a
prescription or shot without questioning the
doctor pretty thoroughly. Jonny believes that
too – as he proved with that dermatologist, Dr.
Frank.

Jerry Borenstein sent me Irwin Shaw’s address


in case I want to write him (I may) and said,
“You were marvelous at the alumni meeting.” I
was. I am competent, and it’s nice to know
other people think so, too.

George writes that the New York Post article


“amazed” him; he also said that he never saw
the Library Journal review of X (it was
“recommended”).

Well, now I feel that I have a vacation coming


up: three days without teaching. This summer
term teaching The Short Novel may work out
after all.

Saturday, July 28, 1979


5 PM. Prospective buyers have been coming to
see the house all day. The 4 PM couple just
left, and others are scheduled for 5 PM, 6 PM
and 7 PM. I bet Mom and Dad will have little
trouble selling the house, though they probably
should have asked for more in the ad because
everyone likes to bargain.

Last night’s dinner with Harvey at Camperdown


Elm was pleasant if not spectacularly
interesting. Harvey plans to leave Park Slope
for Santa Barbara in early September; he’ll stay
with his friend Dick, and together they hope to
write a screenplay. It seems like a good move
for Harvey, who’s in a rut here in New York.

I slept wonderfully, having unusually pleasant


dreams, including one about a lovable and
precocious child. This morning several letters
arrived in response to the dozens I’ve been
mailing out.

The best news came from Michael Alan Fox,


Adult Trade Director of Walden Books. Harry
Hoffman, the president of the company, told
him to write to me after he got my letter.

Michael said they’re sorry they didn’t


previously take note of Hitler and have now
ordered copies of them, which they’ll place in
their “large urban bookstores which seem to do
well with experimental fiction.”

So going to the top paid off, at least in one


case.
Felicia Eth responded to my letter rather coolly,
saying she’d try to sell paperback rights but
“those bugaboos about short story collections
are truer than you know.” She’s an asshole
who rejected both of Wesley’s novels; she sent
him a carbon copy of my letter.

Lillian Friedman, who does the column for Arno


Press’s monthly Books of the Times said that
my title was offensive and my cover was
horrible: “After years of buying books for
Brentano’s, I should know” blah blah blah. But
she told me to have Taplinger send her the
book and she’ll do her best.

The editor of Western Maryland College’s


newspaper Scrimshaw (“Uncle Irving” was first
published in their campus magazine) asked for
a copy of the book and she’ll be glad to review
it.

The AWP Job List contained news of a one-


semester opening for Visiting Assistant
Professor at the University of Miami. They’re
really looking for a novelist, and I have had no
luck with them in the past, but still I submitted
their credentials. Supposedly Irv Littman has
“pull” with someone high up at the school;
maybe that might help.

Dr. Pasquale and I had a good session today.


It’s very hard to rid myself of old neurotic sets
– like the idea that things are either going all
bad or all good.
Dr. Pasquale pointed out that I use “selective
attention” and focus only on those external
events – like cutting myself shaving, missing a
traffic light, etc. – that prove my theory about
bad things happening, while I ignore events
that are contrary.

And it’s true: last week I got no mail but I was


so happy I didn’t let it concern me. I know I
put too much stock in others’ opinions of me.
So when I see my name in Arthur Bell’s Voice
column, I am not just happy because it might
mean sales for my book; I look upon it as proof
that I’m a worthwhile person.

Conversely, if I am rejected for a job at Baruch,


I am not just annoyed because I may have lost
a job; instead, I take it as proof of my lacking
worth – even though I might have been
overlooked for any number of reasons.

See, I can’t win playing this game. If I get 99


good reviews, that one bad review will still
make me doubt myself. And, as Dr. Pasquale
pointed out, even if I could get unanimous
praise, I wouldn’t respect it because I’d say it
was coming from people unqualified to make
judgments.

I’ve got to become more aware of these things.


The control is within me – not over external
events, but in my perception of them. And
perception is really all that counts.
Friday, July 29, 1977

5 PM. It’s almost August already. Time seems


to be picking up speed and going faster with
each moment.

Last Friday night – going out to have Chinese


food; being with Helmut and Avis and Libby
and Tommy; looking at the night skyline from
the Promenade – seems like it took place
months ago.

And the Friday before that – Avis and I having


dinner with Teresa and Don – now feels like it
happened in another century.

I feel peculiar. My limbs ache, my throat is


sore, I have little energy – but the feelings are
all so vague. I’m not really sick, yet I don’t feel
quite well.

This weekend looms large and empty, and I


dread it. Yet I wouldn’t want to be active and
with friends, either. Oh, I know I’ll never be
satisfied. No matter how successful I become,
it will never be enough for me.

What is this terrible compulsion to be the best?


I see Jonny futilely trying to be “the best
bodybuilder in the world,” and I can recognize
the pathos of his situation, so why can’t I see it
in mine?

My mother has told me throughout all my life


that my problem is I “think too much.” I wish
my mind could take a vacation, but no, it’s
constantly scheming, analyzing, prevaricating,
exploiting. . .

What is the brain’s function, after all? I feel


curiously dead despite all that brain activity. I
looked at myself on the photos of the party and
I had dreaded seeing myself. But it turned out
I was someone I can barely recognize – I didn’t
know I looked like that – tanned, bluff, chubby,
so cheerful-looking.

The camera does lie – or else I’m not looking at


the photos in the right way. The pictures were
a disappointment, as usual. No one – not Alice
or Avis or Helmut or Teresa – looked as good as
they do in real life.

It’s a waste to take photos for me. I’d rather


have my memories, which serve me better.

I called Teresa, and she said she’s not going to


British Columbia with Don after all. He’ll be
busy with Times business for five days out of
seven, and Teresa decided last night that a
weekend in Banff just wasn’t worth it.

She told me she ran into Slade at a downtown


bank yesterday – it was a shock for both of
them – and she told him that he missed the
party with me and Elspeth and June. He was
astonished when Teresa gave him her business
card with Wall Street Journal under her name.

Slade is still at the same old job with the phone


company, and he’ll probably be there for a long
time. He was my idol in college. The first thing
I ever had the nerve to say to him was how
much I admired his columns in Kingsman. “Are
you a fan?” he asked me.

Slade was the first person to mention Ron


Sukenick’s work to me, and other writers as
well. I thought he’d be a great writer for sure.
About three years ago, I said as much to
Sidney, and he replied, “I don’t think so; I think
he burned himself out quickly.”

Sidney was right, and I don’t understand how I


got to be doing what Slade should be doing. Is
it his fear of success? I have it, too, God
knows, but my ambitions are limitless, and
they scare me more.

In the past week, I’ve written over thirty pages


of new work, seen three new stories in print,
gotten one acceptance – and still I am not
satisfied. How can I ever be happy with that
attitude?

One day my bookshelves will be filled with


magazines and books containing my work, and
it won’t make me one bit happier. So I might
as well learn it now: success will not make my
life any better.

Hadn’t I better take that into consideration and


plan accordingly? Let’s say I was at the top of
my field. What then? Then, the answer is, I’d
really be in a pickle.
So forget about counting credits, totaling up
rejections and xeroxing everything I type. Avis
and Helmut and Libby and her family have
taught me that life is meant to be lived, that it
doesn’t happen on the pages of books.

Yet I can’t quite believe that. I know I’ll never


be happy until I do – but look how happy I look
in the photographs.

Marc will probably bring Deanna here for the


weekend. Jonny hates the idea, and I’m not
wild about her staying over again either, but
what can you do?

Monday, July 30, 1979

9 PM. I’ve just come back from the bank,


where I paid my monthly loan payment on my
passbook loan, put more money in my
checking account, and withdrew $100 so I
won’t have to go back during the brutal early
days of the month, when it’s so crowded.

I have $2,000 in savings now, barely enough to


last me until (hopefully) my first paycheck in
the fall. I’d take a part-time job, but I feel I’m
doing more important things by promoting my
book.

I spent hours in the library today, and I ended


up sending out fifteen letters to various editors,
columnists and agents. And I mailed out those
Vice Presidential press releases this morning.

No tangible results today – and I wonder if


Taplinger could miss seeing some of the
notices my book may have received. It seems
they caught the Los Angeles Times review only
because Wesley’s screenwriter friend in L.A.
clipped it and sent it on to him.

I’ve finished reading Michael Korda’s Success!


It’s geared mostly toward the corporate world,
but I found it interesting. I want to succeed
and I have optimism, endurance, energy, self-
confidence and self-knowledge. I’m also not
afraid of failure because I know I can learn a
great deal from failure.

My failure with the BC publishing and literature


conference taught me never to get involved
with incompetent and all-demanding bosses,
and that’s when I first learned (thorough my
“Terrorists Threaten to Disrupt Conference”
press release) that bold and “crazy” moves stir
up interest and potential publicity.

I want to be rich; perhaps this is the first time


in my life I’ve felt this way. Money never
mattered before. I was committed to Art with a
capital A and to teaching. Of course my
situation, living in my parents’ house, helped
insulate me from the realities of paychecks and
bills.

For that I am grateful. I didn’t have to struggle


in squalor, and I don’t intend to live in squalor
now. New York City is a paradise if you have
money, and now I want some of that money.

I have nothing to apologize for. I’ve paid my


dues with the little magazines paying in copies
and the adjunct jobs that paid $675 a term.
And where is it written that one has to pay
dues anyway?

When I picked Dad up at the station this


evening, he told me that Ivan sent his regards.
Ivan knew who Dad was and introduced himself
as “a friend of Richard’s.”

Ivan told Dad that he and his wife live in New


Jersey now. He asked how I was doing, and
Dad told him about my teaching and about my
book’s “success.”

Dad said Ivan was dressed in jeans and “looks


as though he has a nothing job, in charge of
photostating or something.” Ivan asked if I
was still seeing Ronna, and Dad said I was. But
I’m not.

I did call Ronna last night. She had just gotten


in, and when I asked from where, she said from
painting her friend’s brother’s house in
Sheepshead Bay.

I’m certain Ronna’s pretty serious about a guy;


that’s why she’s never home and that’s why
she’s unable to get to rewriting her résumé.
Ronna, like her friend Susan, who’s supposed
to be a writer, is a person who Talks rather
than Does.
She’ll never get anywhere, and I’m sure she’ll
take the easy way out by marrying and getting
stuck in some rut. She’s entitled to a
relationship with someone, of course, but she’s
not as special as I once thought she was, and
she’s better suited to some boring guy instead
of me.

The end of our relationship had little to do with


my gayness and much to do with the gulf
between the ways we want to live our lives.

Yesterday at the pool Wesley and Marla agreed


with me that the biggest success drives come
from a need for revenge. Wes said that if a
person isn’t given enough discouragement by
others, he or she will not be motivated to
succeed.

More and more I feel like a successful person,


and I want to be around other people who are
achievers. Am I becoming awful? Where’s old
lovable self-doubting Richie?

Monday, July 31, 1978

3 PM. It’s a cool, rainy day – the first day of


this kind we’ve had all summer. It makes me
nostalgic for September, yet I also miss the
sensuousness of summer.
July is ending, and August has sneaked up on
us already. A month from today the second
summer session at LIU will be over. I have
strange feelings of uncertainty.

Last year at this time, Grandpa Nat had his


heart attack/stroke, Uncle Abe died, Avis and
Helmut were here, and I was preparing to go to
Bread Loaf. Now I feel uneasy about things.
Maybe it’s the weather or having to teach four
evenings a week, but I don’t feel like myself
anymore.
I am changing, and that frightens me. A good
part of it has to do with moving to Albany; I
don’t think I’ve completely accepted it yet, and
a part of me still hopes that something
“magical” will happen beforehand that will
make Albany unnecessary.

But that’s not likely. Michael Largo of New


Earth Books called last night, and he was very
irate – justifiably so, I told him. I explained that
there was no excuse for my not getting in
touch with him, but there was no way I could
come up with the money for him to publish my
book.

I felt awful speaking to him, so embarrassed,


but it’s over with now; he got out his wrath and
I’m glad it’s settled. I don’t blame my parents
for telling me that they would get me the
$3,000 to subsidize the book’s publication but
then backing down.

I should have known the money was too hard


for them to get now. I take the responsibility
for hurting the New Earth Books collective,
wasting their time, money and energy.

It doesn’t make me feel very good about


myself, and I couldn’t sleep last night. Then
again, I also thought about how I treated Kristy
Rogoff last week. I didn’t respond to three of
her phone calls because I didn’t want to see
her and couldn’t bring myself to tell her so.

Both of these incidents happened because I


didn’t want to be “a bad guy,” but in the end, I
only made myself feel much more guilty. I
need a psychiatrist. I feel very pained.

Carolyn Bennett called and said the Courier-


Life photographer couldn’t come and would I
please send some photos over to her parents’
house and she’d get one of them into the
paper.

The only photos I had were pretty rotten ones;


if only I hadn’t fooled around so much when
Marc took pictures that day. Last night I
dreamed that Carolyn got sick and went into
the hospital, making it impossible for her to
write her article on me.

My first impulse was going to be, when the


article comes out, to send copies of it to
everyone I know. I now see that as foolish and
vain; my friends won’t like me any the more
because of some article.

Why do I feel the need to impress anyone?


Obviously my self-image can’t be all that great
if it’s necessary for me to gain everybody’s
approval.

Meanwhile, it’s been ten days since I wrote my


last story, and in that time I haven’t written a
word, nor have any stories been accepted, nor
have I seen a new story out in print.

I don’t know how much writing I can do while


I’m teaching at night. I feel constrained during
the day. I don’t really like going to bed at 2 AM
and waking up at 10 AM. I guess I feel pretty
down on myself in all ways today; maybe it’s
my biorhythm chart.

Seven-twelfths of 1978 has slipped through my


fingers already. Can moving to Albany make
me any happier? But why use that
inappropriate, irrelevant word happiness?
Happiness has nothing to do with real life.

I wish . . . but why bother wishing? I can see


I’m not in a good mood, and if it were possible
today, I’d stay out of my own way.

Sunday, August 1, 1976

8 PM. It was a sunny and pleasant day today.


There were cool breezes that reminded me
that it is August. The summer is half-over and
even though we still have the dog days to get
through, I’m already looking forward to the
bright days of September and October, always
the best time to be in New York.
I’ve always looked forward to autumn’s crisp
weather and the return to activity after a
leisurely summer. But this year will be
different: I will not be returning to school as a
student this fall.

Occasionally I’ve wondered whether I shouldn’t


have gone on for my Ph.D. or tried to get
another degree in anything, just so I could
remain in school. But I’m glad I decided to
discontinue my formal education after seven
years and three degrees; let’s see how I
function outside of academia.

Speaking of seven years, today I’m beginning


the eighth year of my diary-keeping. Seven
years of my life have come and gone since that
tentative, uncertain summer of 1979. They’ve
been interesting years (he said with a knowing
smile).

I’m not sure I’ve become less scared than I was


at 18, or whether I have “become a different
person.” There is still within me somewhere
the Richard of August 1969. I’ve lived a
cautious and lonely and reluctant life, and I
suppose I shall continue to do so.

I cannot imagine what I will be writing in my


diary seven years from now, on August 1,
1983, or what the person doing the writing will
be like. I still cannot believe I’m 25, and I
know I’ll never be 32; that’s impossible.
Alice came over yesterday afternoon, and since
Andreas is still in Europe, she went to the
movies at night with me. We saw Murder by
Death, which was good for an occasional
chuckle, and afterwards we went to The Arch.

Alice has become my best friend in recent


months, and the person I confide in more than
any other. We talk about our dreams of
success as writers, and whether fame and
fortune can make for happiness. (Alice
believes that, while I am skeptical.)

Alice tells me she’ll wait for Andreas “forever”


and thinks that maybe he’ll marry her after his
mother dies. I wonder if I’ll ever love again.
I’ve been avoiding the possibility of another
close relationship for years, and love and sex
aren’t all that important to me.

I guess some people think I’m nothing but a


saturnine pig, and maybe they’re right.
Certainly I’m repressed and frustrated – but not
to the point of it affecting my ability to live.
Sometimes I’m scared that I am a very cold
person with no capacity for loving, having only
a nice idea of what love is like.

Still, I’ve chosen the weird kind of life I’m


living, and I have no regrets. I had a nice time
with Alice last night, and during the night had
two dreams that were so pleasant that the
vague memory of them makes me smile.

One dream had me reaching out to both Ronna


and Ivan, and achieving a kind of communion
with both of them; certainly for years I’ve
wanted to remain close with both of them,
something I know is no longer possible in the
world of reality. I guess that sums up my
Gemini/bisexual need to make contact – or
maybe it just goes back to my childhood failure
to really get in touch with my mother and my
father.

In the other dream, I was graduating college,


and Lyndon Johnson came back from the dead
to address us; he was standing right in front of
me and was so tall I could barely manage to
see his head. He made a speech which moved
me.

This afternoon I was in Washington Square,


sitting on a bench, walking around, watching
magicians, listening to music, looking at
people. I discovered Washington Square seven
Augusts ago, and one again it seems a good
place to go to seek out life.

I had a late lunch at The Bagel, severed by my


friend the waitress whose name I don’t know.
Driving back to Brooklyn, I was signing and
yelling like a joyous lunatic.

Tuesday, August 2, 1977

6 PM. It all seems very unreal these days. I


just wish this ordeal would end already.
Grandpa Nat does not seem to be responding,
and it’s been two weeks since he had the
stroke.
There can be no doubt now that the brain
damage which resulted has left him not quite a
person anymore. He’ll never be able to
resume any kind of a normal life.

It kills me to see Dad so upset. It’s bad enough


that he has to deal with the aggravation of
splitting up the business with Max, but being
here, thinking of his father, praying, despairing,
crying – I don’t know how much more he can
take.

Everyone’s showing a low profile and trying to


help out as much as possible and not add more
grief to the situation. My father has had such a
bad year; the whole family has.

First Uncle Monty died, then the business went


under, there was all that indecision and
discussion this winter about moving to Florida.
Everything seems so bleak, it’s hard not to be
pessimistic.

I had a very bad night; my cold kept me awake.


To be sick and unable to sleep in the middle of
the night must be one of the closest things to
hell on earth that there is. I feel lost, helpless,
totally without direction.

Writing seems beyond my capabilities now.


I’m glad I didn’t have to stay in bed today, that
I could go downtown and sign for my
unemployment check, that I could go shopping
for Mom.
I even rode the bike for a few minutes this
afternoon. But those moments of forgetfulness
are like oases in a Sahara of despair. I wish I
could accept things, but so far, I just can’t.

I’m very confused now, so much so that I


greatly feel the need to talk to a therapist. I
don’t know what I’m going to do about Bread
Loaf, and I guess it depends on events. But I
can’t psych myself up for going there and I’m
unable to deal with my anxieties about it.

There’s no one I really can talk to. My sinuses


are killing me. I’m sure this cold stems partly
from an unconscious need to cry. But I can’t
cry naturally, so in the middle of the night I
stick Q-tips up my nostrils to force sneezes and
my eyes water and that relieves the pressure
in my head for a little while.

Every time the phone rings, my heart beats


fast. I feel more sympathy for the young
victims of Son of Sam than I ever would before
all this. I pump vitamins and milk and
soybeans into my mouth, hoping to keep from
getting sicker.

I can’t make the slightest plan. Going to the


dentist tomorrow seems to be a major effort.
Mikey wants me to come with him and Larry to
the movies tomorrow, and I’m supposed to
have dinner at Libby’s on Tuesday, but I can’t
deal with those things now.
I was half-counting on Exotic Beauties Press
doing a collection of my stories, but now it
looks out of the question. Tessa Marquis wrote
me saying the usual things: they’re strapped
financially, distribution is a problem, etc.

Harvey says he’s been doing nothing all


summer and he’s decided that he can’t write
except under pressure in a classroom situation
– which means he’s not a writer. I don’t care
much about the project anymore.

Gary tried to cheer me up, and he was a good


listener, but he’s so depressed himself about
not finding a job.

And Betty’s job didn’t work out; it was very


unpleasant at that office, and her co-worker, a
fiftyish woman started getting very friendly
until Betty finally realized that the woman
wanted a physical relationship, and that
repelled her and she didn’t come in again.

Camus said the best way to make yourself


useful in a difficult time is to do your job well. I
tried to write a eulogy for Grandpa Nat, but no
one else could read it but me, it’s so personal –
and I don’t think I could stand up at his funeral,
with his body in a coffin in front of me, without
getting hysterical.

I’ve never really known death – I’ve been lucky


– but I don’t know how to deal with it. My head
is pounding. Maybe that’s how I deal with it.
Friday, August 3, 1979

8 PM. Mikey and I were making arrangements


to go to Manhattan yesterday when he
mentioned seeing my book listed in the listing
of new books in the Times. Sure enough, I had
missed that.

Mikey came over at 6 PM and immediately


after we got on the Belt Parkway, we were
pulled over by the police. Mikey’s mother had
let her inspection sticker expire in June without
renewing it.

I was impressed with the way Mikey handled


the ticket; I even found myself feeling guilty for
taking his car and making the suggestion that
we take the parkway, but Mikey himself was
calm and philosophical – and he wasn’t trying
to hide any feelings, either.

It started raining as we drove up to Teresa’s.


We found her and her doctor friend Diana in
the air-conditioned bedroom. Teresa has the
sweetest friends; Diana is pretty, thin (she has
great legs) with a cute lisping Southern accent
and sharp wit.

The ladies got dressed and we drove through


the park to the East Side. It was fun, like a
high school double date. I liked being out with
good-looking people.
We saw Marla and Wes in front of Eric’s Bar –
he looked a little nervous and Marla was
stunning in a slinky black low-cut dress – and
we went into the back room.

I stopped to talk to Scott Sommer, who didn’t


recognize me at first. Scott told me he’s found
an apartment in Manhattan, “and if they don’t
sell the paperback rights pretty soon I’m not
going to be there very long.”

We found seats at a table in the back, were


joined by Alice, and we ordered drinks. I saw
several of Wes’s friends whom I know by sight
– like Steve Zaillian, who sold his screenplay,
and the caustic guy who writes for Time – and
there were people there from Taplinger.

Wes came out in pajamas and handcuffs, led


by his friend Josh, who was dressed as a
hospital orderly. “You’ve all been asked here
because you’ve committed some horrible
transgression,” Wes said, “and now you’re
going to pay the price – by listening to me play
eighteen songs.”

I thought it was a great show. Wes’s songs are


full of intelligent, sensuous imagery, very
Springsteenesque. He plays the piano
masterfully, and as Teresa said, “He’s
gorgeous; how can he be straight?”

Alice didn’t think much of Wes’s voice, but I


could listen to him all night. Of course that
may be because he’s my friend and I’m just a
little in love with him (and he knows it).

Wesley is a great showman. He used stage


props effectively (a bus of Elvis, Marla taking
Polaroids of the audience as he sang
“Photoplay”) and he ended with a singalong to
his “Hard Drugs”; Marla handed out lyric
sheets and little Maalox pills encased in tinfoil.

The place was packed, the sound system was


good, and there was a lot of applause. The five
of us had trouble dividing up the bill, and we
stumbled out laughingly into the muggy night.

Teresa and Alice hit it off, and matchmakers


that they are, they immediately began quizzing
Mikey and Diana on their preferences in the
opposite sex. We stopped off at a Baskin-
Robbins for ice cream and we were having a
very good time.

But Teresa wanted to go home and Diana had


the midnight shift at Columbia-Presbyterian, so
Alice, Mikey and I went on alone to 100th and
Riverside and Wesley and Marla’s party.

It was very hot in the apartment, and we


stayed only an hour. I wanted to talk to Scott;
Wes gave him copies of his PW and Kirkus
reviews, which were very good.

Wes said he was thrilled to see his name in the


article about my V.P. campaign in the New
York Post, and I told him he was great tonight.
I hugged Marla, lifting her off the ground, and
spoke with Babs Pinkerton and Ray Thomas,
whom I think are alcoholics (neither was
coherent).

As Alice said as we drove downtown, Wes and


his friends are not really our types: they’re
hipper, richer, better brought-up and more
spoiled – but we did enjoy being with them.

Mikey and I drove down Flatbush Avenue after


dropping Alice off, and he wanted to stop at
the McDonald’s by Fillmore Avenue. We met
Carl and Alan Karpoff’s father there on his way
home; he supervises six of their Brooklyn
franchises.

And at the table I opened the Saturday New


York Times I’d bought at the Junction and found
an intelligent little piece on me, “A Running
Mate in Search of a Candidate,” in their Notes
on People.

Friday, August 4, 1978

9 PM. “Author Richard Grayson Practices His


Craft With Little Fanfare” reads the headline on
page 22 of this week’s Kings Courier, Bay
News, Flatbush Life and Canarsie Digest. The
intro lead I don’t like that much: “Brooklyn
Trivia Incorporated.” But the two-page spread,
featuring half of “With Hitler in New York,” is
quite impressive.
My picture is not a disgrace, although I wasn’t
wild about the caption: “ACCEPTED AFTER 20
REJECTIONS [my Transatlantic Review story]. . .
A highly skilled fiction writer, Grayson inhabits
the nether world of shades, shadows and
unsung fictioneers as a very successful writer.”

And Carolyn Bennett’s article begins: “Richard


Grayson, at age 27, is a very successful writer.
Not in the world’s terms, mind you, but in that
nether world of shades, shadows and unsung
fictioneers.”

My favorite paragraph is the second, which


begins: “Grayson is hard not to like.
Handsome, personable and sincere, he exudes
a high-energy level, and he is a highly
imaginative writer. . .”

I always wondered just what it was I’ve been


exuding all these years. And to be called
“handsome” in print, by a nonbiased (lesbian)
journalist – well, I couldn’t ask for anything
more. I’d been afraid I was going to be
described as “cherubic.”

Carolyn’s article is wonderful, comparing me to


Barthelme (I come out on top because my
stories are filled with quiet emotion), tying me
in with my Brooklyn roots and giving a
summary of my career that is so impressive it
almost impresses me.

Plus we get a plug for Disjointed Fictions. I


found the paper when Ronna and I stopped off
at the Junction on our way back from
Manhattan.

The lady in the candy store wanted to know


why I was buying five copies, and I showed the
article to her, and she insisted on showing it to
everyone in the luncheonette! But I wasn’t
embarrassed; I felt proud.

Mom and Dad were thrilled, and even Marc


thought it was terrific. Ronna, as usual, was
restrained, but I think deep down it impressed
her.

(I was very cruel to her today – for no reason,


really – but I’ll write about that tomorrow. It’s
not that it’s not important – it is – but tonight is
not the time for recriminations.)

I don’t want to keep crowing over this, but


after all the disappointments and frustrations
of recent weeks, it does give my ego a boost.
Mom sent copies to her friends the Littmans
and to Grandma Sylvia in Florida, and Marc
took the paper along when he went to have
dinner with Grandma Ethel and Grandpa Herb
tonight.

I xeroxed copies of the article, and yes, I sent


them to people who I know well enough so that
they won’t think I’m obnoxious: Gary and
Betty, Vito, Mikey, George Myers, Dr. Lipton,
Caaron (for her I used it as a gambit to get her
to write me back), Avis, Libby.
I tried to call Carolyn to thank her, but she
wasn’t home; I really owe her one now. I’m
sorry for going on about this at such length,
but after all, folks, this is my diary and I’ll crow
if I want to.

Besides, it’s good to get it all out now so


tomorrow I can completely forget about it. I
don’t want to be someone who believes his
own publicity. And of course I have to practice
my craft with little fanfare.

Anyway, it’s a nice lift in this time of


uncertainty, insecurity, loneliness, rainy
weather, oil spills off the beach, pimples,
sinusitis and angst. (Let’s not forget ennui.)
Go to bed, public figure.

Thursday, August 5, 1976

7 PM. I’m pleased to report that I’m feeling


pretty relaxed now. I worked from 9 AM to 3
PM today, and it was interesting and not
unenjoyable.

It was rather an easy day, for instead of going


back to New Haven Manor in Far Rock, Mr.
Farber told me to go to Seaport Manor in
Canarsie to assist this woman, Susan, with
patients seeing the g.p. and the podiatrist.

Susan was friendly and easy to work with, and


as the patients were all elderly rather than
mental cases, it made things a little more
normal. I’m getting the hang of filling out
Medicaid and Medicare forms, and Susan has
the Seaport Manor files well-organized and up-
to-date.

It was a bit hectic, shuffling patients between


the foot doctor and the medical doctor, but I
did well, I think. Some of the old people are
fairly interesting characters.

I talked with a lovely lady of 90, Mrs. Belinsky


(like the Russian critic), who has a room with
her husband of seventy years. They seem to
fit together so naturally; it looked very tjotjog.

I got a free lunch, which was pretty spare even


by old-age-home standards, and finally finished
up at about 3 PM. I guess there’ll be good days
and bad days working for Mr. Farber, but I’ve
found it tolerable so far.

Yesterday I saw Grandpa Herb and Grandma


Ethel at the house, and when I left for work this
morning, Grandpa Nat was sitting on the porch
waiting for Dad. My grandparents were happy
to hear that I’ve got a job.

Last evening I went over to Josh’s for a couple


of hours and we sat and bullshitted like old
times; I’m glad we can still do that. (Maybe it’s
because I’ve come off my high horse). Josh
says he’s “stagnating,” but he’s doing all right.
During the week, he sees Cherille, and he’s got
a girlfriend upstate on weekends, a beautiful
artist’s model.
Josh is really pissed at Baumbach for going
away without changing his grades; Jon really
shouldn’t have done that. Despite everything,
Josh deserves a chance to graduate with his
MFA at least.

We talked about Allan, who’s doing okay,


among other things. Maybe I’ll be able to
relate to people better now that I’ve decided
not to come off as Mr. Terrific.

In a way this deluge of rejections I’ve been


getting has been useful; it keeps me from
getting too cocky and overconfident.

Amazingly, I wrote another (mediocre) short


story in the past few days. It’s called “Frieda
Wachsberger Does Not Believe in Happiness,”
and the title is probably the best thing about it.

Yesterday I got a letter at the Fiction Collective


from the editor of the Westerly Review. He
thanked me for sending him a copy of
Sukenick’s 98.6 and told me TWR #2 will be
out in August – which means September, but I
can wait.

Today I got this marvelous note from Loris


Essary of Austin: “Just want to drop you a note
that I read ‘Summoning Alice Kppel’ in the new
Panache and liked it very much. Your piece in
Interstate will hopefully out before September
1.” I can’t believe a person could be that
thoughtful.
And today even the mood in the house seems
to be lighter. Dad seems more cheerful and
optimistic, and he’s psyching himself up to go
into a new business.
I don’t know if my own sense of renewed well-
being is real or illusory, but I’m enjoying it
while it’s here.

Today was an ace day when everything clicked


just right. Tomorrow may bring a new disaster,
but I’ll hold on till another day comes along. I
feel very fulfilled and very much at peace.

Friday, August 6, 1976

9 PM and I’m ready for bed. Today was a long,


exhausting day, and I feel like I’m floating on
the Wreck of the Hesparus or something. I’m
not sure I know what I’m writing. And I wanted
to write some fiction tonight yet!

I don’t know what I’m trying to prove or what. I


just stood on line at the bank in Kings Plaza for
half an hour (total standing-in-line-at-the-bank
time this week: two hours) among all those
nice engaged couples saving up for their
weddings.

Going to the bank was a foolish mistake, but I


wanted to deposit the check Mr. Farber gave
me, so I could see my big $236.48 balance.
I’m wealthy, by Richard Grayson standards,
you see. Anyway, I got soaked walking to my
car, which I parked, with little foresight, in the
outdoor lot.

Last evening, when I went to get that diet ice


cream, I found Alice at the playground playing
paddleball with a fiftyish photographer named
Mario. (I had seen Alice there the night before,
too, on my way to Josh’s house.)

I watched their game till its conclusion, and


although Alice lost, she’s a very good player
indeed – and is one of the fiercest competitors
I’ve ever seen.

Mr. Farber called at 10 PM to tell me to meet


him at 9 AM today at New Haven Manor. I was
there this morning on the dot, but he was half
an hour late, so I sat in the lobby with the
residents, watching Barbara Walters.

After nearly a week, the residents of New


Haven Manor do not seem all that strange, and
it occurred to me, lounging on the chair in the
lotus position, my finger in my mouth, that if a
stranger were to talk into the lobby he’d
obviously think I was a mental case like the
rest of them.

One very demure lady came out with the


following delightful monologue:

“I have only one ovary left, Mr. Edrich. . . They


operated in ’56 – that’s when all the trouble
started. . . Yeah, they’ll cure everyone. . . Yeah,
they’ll cure everyone. . . I put my trust in God.
God is my hero. . . I told him my mental
capacities are excellent; there’s nothing in my
head whatsoever.”

Anyhow, it was a long day. Dr. Hassan came


and this girl Joyce, and I set him up with
patients; it was a real hassle completely going
over the files. The filling out of the Medicare
and Medicaid forms is so dull; it’s not hard
once you get the hang of it, but the work is so
boring, I began to feel my patience wearing
thin.

Finally, at 4 PM, Dr. Hassan saw his last


patient, and as soon as Mr. Farber took care of
firing Joyce – which he’d told me on Tuesday
that he would do; of course all day I didn’t let
on and when she came out of the medical
office with red eyes, I still pretended I didn’t
know what was going on – he had me for some
kind of important session.

This whole week of work, Mr. Farer said, was to


give me “an overview” of the way the business
operates. Now what he wants me to take
charge of is the x-ray work and the dental work
at New Haven Manor. He told me he needs me
to work on my own and do an effective job so
that he doesn’t have to check up on me.

Mr. Farber said it’s a very marginal business


and it’s important that I get as many patients
x-rayed and to the dentist as possible. I’m
going to meet him Monday at New Haven at 9
AM (I declined an offer to work on Sunday) and
he gave me a check for the week: $62 and
change.
I drove home in one of the heaviest rainstorms
I’d ever seen; the whole peninsula was flooded.
I noted that I was paid on the books and that
Mr. Farber lives in Bayswater right next to Far
Rock. That’s useful for the future, because
something isn’t right about all this.

Sunday, August 7, 1977

10 PM. I know I’ve licked my depression


because I’ve written two seven-page stories
today. One, “A Hard Woman,” was a straight-
laced character sketch (using a fairly old-
fashioned device to set the “scenes”); the
other, “When the Values Go Up, Up, Up,” was
zany, probably too immature and satirical.

But I’m writing again, and I believe in myself,


and that’s the important thing. I was just
reading an interesting article on drama in the
Times, about
post-Einstein theater.

I think fiction writers can no longer pretend we


live in a Newtonian universe where cause leads
to effect. No, things just happen today. The
other three Great Jews said:

Follow Jesus of Nazareth and live a good life


and you will be rewarded with the Kingdom of
Heaven; follow Karl Marx and live the socialist
life and we will all be equal and happy on
earth; follow Sigmund Freud and unearth your
past life and things will get better.

But Christianity, communism and


psychoanalysis have all been discredited by
now. Einstein’s special theory of relativity
hasn’t been: things seem to happen at random,
for no apparent reason.

Life is much more uncertain and dangerous,


but it’s also much more interesting.

I spoke to Avis, Helmut, Libby and Mason in


turn today as Avis called from Penn Station on
their way upstate. I hope I’ll see them on the
day before Avis and Helmut leave for Europe.

Avis and Helmut have made my summer,


whatever else happens. I’m going to miss
them terribly.

Last night I had a long conversation with Alice.


She’s decided to write a book. June convinced
her that they both have power as editors at
Seventeen and that they should use it.

Alice figured a book interviewing teenaged


models would be a natural for her, so she
started calling editors, using her title and
telling them her idea. She was surprised at the
positive response she got.

Alice had lunch with the juvenile editor at


Bantam the other day and will be meeting with
others soon. Alice is also anxious to leave
Seventeen for greener fields and will be having
lunch with Aaron Schindler, the big cheese at
Family Circle to see if he’s got anything (or
knows of anything) for her.

Alice has totally given up on her show-writing


partner Kenneth; she can’t wait for him to get
moving on the play, so that whole thing is over.
Alice likes writing lyrics, though, and wants to
do a musical with someone.

Josh called this afternoon and we went to Kings


Plaza for lunch. He’s getting more frustrated at
his job every day he works at the hospital.
He’ll send out the new résumé soon, but he
doesn’t have high hopes.

Stephanie, Josh’s 30-year-old girlfriend (she’s


got a 10-year-old daughter and a husband who
lives with her best friend, “a Norwegian
goddess I want to fuck”), is in love with him,
and he doesn’t like that.

Today Josh paid me what was for him a high


compliment: he said in a way I was more of a
reel than he was. I would never settle for a
“straight” job on a magazine or advertising.

When Josh says he’s poor and earning $200 a


week, when Alice and Scott and others tell me
they can’t be satisfied with their salaries which
are more than I’ve ever dreamed of, I get
depressed and feel that I’m so far behind other
people my age.

I show no signs of upward mobility; I live with


my parents and subsist in New York on my five
dollars a day. But I wouldn’t trade this life for
$200 a week and a Manhattan apartment.
Three hundred dollars a week? Maybe. No,
not really.

All I really need is the freedom to write. And I


have that, largely due to the understanding of
my parents. It’s only recently that I’ve begun
to realize how incredibly supportive they are,
and how much I owe them.

Now I’m well enough physically and


emotionally, to deal with the problems of sex. I
realize, on a hot and humid day like today, how
much I need to be with a guy. All those
muscles and shoulders and chests and legs I
see all day: I look at them without any guilt,
just simple, uncomplicated longing.

I got a letter from this guy, Steve, whose ad in


the Voice I answered. He sounds really nice:
24, 5’9”, 135 pounds, into Germany, the ocean,
writing. I tried calling him several times today
but got no answer.

Wednesday, August 8, 1979

10 PM. Ten years ago, August 8, 1969, a


Friday, I bought a diary and sat on the grass at
Brooklyn College (in a spot which no longer
exists, having long since been taken over by a
“temporary” building), I proceeded to write
diary entries for the first week in August.
Today People magazine called Taplinger to ask
for a photo to accompany their review of my
book. Wes said the photo may not appear but
apparently the review will.

“Under ‘Picks and Pans’?” I asked Wesley.

“I think it’s gonna be a ‘pick,’” he said.

I guess they wouldn’t ask for my photo if they


were going to pan it. This is unbelievable. I
did write the woman at People who called Wes,
but I never thought it would amount to
anything.

If for any reason the People review doesn’t


appear, I don’t want to be devastated. This is
getting scary. I may actually get the thing I’ve
wished for: isn’t that supposed to be the worst
thing that can happen? But I’ve got to focus on
the little realities of my life or I’ll go mad.

The University of Miami’s English Department


chairman wrote to say he’s interested in me for
the vacancy next spring; this was before I
wrote Dean Jerry Katz, Irv Littman’s close
friend. They asked to see my book, so I sent it
on down to them.

Star-Web Paper #7 arrived today, about four


years after “Notes on the Type” and “Mark the
Public Notices” were accepted. It was nice to
see the latter story in print, however; I wrote
Tom Fisher and told him I gave him an
acknowledgement in Hitler.
Last evening George Drury Smith of Beyond
Baroque phoned from Venice, California. They
were typesetting their new issue and
discovered they’d lost my contract and the
statement I’d written about my two stories.

I told George I’d get them out to him right


away, and I also mentioned my good L.A.
Times review; he was impressed. (I’ve
discovered it never hurts to blow your own
horn – most of the time, anyway.)

My Bulletin Board ad appeared in the Village


Voice today (I wonder if anyone will see it)
along with a scathing review of the latest
Fiction Collective books and venom about the
Collective itself, which James Woollcott
dismissed as “an academic vanity press.”

Now that I’m on the other side, I can’t help


seeing the Fiction Collective differently, and I
can’t help feeling superior to them. I want as
wide an audience as possible now – and I’ve
got a feeling my work is going to be, if not less
experimental, more accessible.

I’d love for Baumbach to come across the


review in People. But it may not appear, and it
doesn’t make me a better writer if it does
appear.

I spoke to Vito, who’s moved to a new East


Side apartment. I can’t imagine how he affords
$360 a month rent. He got all excited about
my news.
Jay had news of his own when he called: he and
Rita were married last week. It all happened
very quickly, Jay said, and it still hasn’t sunk in
– especially since he’s in the city this week and
Rita’s upstate.

This evening I went to see Aunt Betty in the


hospital. On Saturday she was dressing Uncle
Jack when he wobbled and they both fell to the
ground. She smashed her hip against the
hospital bed and had to be operated on
Sunday. Aunt Betty looked awful; she was in
excruciating pain despite heavy drugs.

I brought her water and propped a pillow under


her. She said it was a freak accident – but look
how it ended. She can’t move her toes, and it
will take weeks of therapy before she can walk
again.

That made me realize that nothing is certain in


this world. I stopped off to see Grandpa Herb
to tell him how his sister-in-law was doing.
Grandma Ethel was out playing cards, of
course, but Dad was there because he wanted
Grandpa to fix the pants he had botched in his
first attempt at alterations.

Wednesday, August 9, 1978

3 PM. This depression has been going on for


weeks now, and it seems to lift only for an hour
or so a day. Everything seems to be going
wrong at once, and I’m under a great deal of
stress.

My nights are very long. I can’t seem to get a


decent eight hours of sleep. I awake again and
again after unpleasant dreams, and during the
day I crave nothing so much as sleep.

My wisdom tooth is killing me; yesterday I was


in so much pain I actually had to moan. I went
to Dr. Hersh this morning, and he said it’s
probably best that it comes out. I’m going to
wait a couple of days to see if the swelling and
pus and soreness go away; otherwise I’ll make
an appointment with the oral surgeon.

I’ve been rinsing it out with warm salt water


and applying oil of clove, which soothes it a
little. But it makes me irascible, the pain, and
I’m already depressed.

No mail for days. I feel like nothing is


happening. If only I could write a story (this is
the longest I’ve gone without writing a story in
three years) or see one come out in print.

My car is acting up again, vibrating crazily


when I stop, sputtering when I accelerate. I
just don’t know.

And Mom and Dad are at the doctor now. I’m


sure that Dad needs surgery. Mom says she’s
“worried,” as if this all happened suddenly!

He’s had that growth for over five years, and


three years ago I pleaded with him to see a
doctor, to no avail. His cowardice may cost
Dad his life, and that outrages me.

I’m thinking of canceling class tomorrow night.


If I can finish teaching Conrad’s The Secret
Sharer this evening, there’s no sense in going
ahead with Lawrence’s The Fox when their
midterm is on Monday.

Oh, I’m so disgusted with living and with


myself and with the choices I’ve made. Every
Wednesday at this time I am writing about how
unhappy I am.

Something’s wrong, and I’m not sure I can


work it out myself. I know that if I do, I’ll be a
stronger person, but I’m not sure I’m equipped
to deal with everything that is troubling me.

I would very much like to be in therapy, but I


have only $290 in the bank as it is, and I can’t
afford therapy. Ironic, isn’t it, that just as
everyone is beginning to think of me as a
success, I feel like more of a failure than ever.

Or is it more than just ironic? Am I reacting to


the Courier-Life article negatively as well as
positively? I see now how celebrities can be so
sad.

I feel I can’t live up to the image of the


“handsome,” “personable,” “sincere” man
(man, “Grayson”) who “exudes high-level
energy.” I don’t know what it is I need, but I
know I need something.
Last night, teaching Mann’s Tonio Kroger, I
spoke to my class about “the agony of the
artist.” But I think my troubles are that I’m a
human, not an artist. I just know how to
express my sufferings, and in a way that’s a
consolation that some others do not have.

I don’t know very many untroubled souls today.


So I’m not crying out as a special person – I’m
not one – but just because everyone else is in
pain, that doesn’t take away from the hurt I
feel.

I would like this to be 1979 and I would like to


be looking back at this time with greater
understanding than I have now. Because,
simply put, I’m not sure of anything.

Sure, I’ve solved the aches and pains that


afflicted me ten years ago, the things that led
to my breakdown. Thank Gold and life and
myself and whatever that I don’t get anxiety
attacks anymore.

But in a way getting an anxiety attack (or a


toothache?) is the easiest way of dealing with
my problems. My central problem here and
now is that I am troubled, yet I can’t quite
define my problem – unless the problem is
simply life itself.

Wednesday, August 10, 1977


5 PM. A strange day. I’ve just come back from
making the funeral arrangements for Uncle
Abe, who died this afternoon in the hospital. I
went with Grandpa Herb and Uncle Irving,
driving them in Grandpa’s car to Far Rockaway,
to the Riverside chapel.

It was all very matter-of-fact. I was glad to go


because I think it’s important to learn how to
do something like that. We chose the cheapest
casket they had, a plain wooden one, for $185.

I wanted to make sure they didn’t rip off


Grandpa Herb, who’ll be the one responsible
for the bill. So I told the funeral director we
didn’t need a limousine or other frills.

There’s no point in it to my mind. But still,


when they added up all the times, it came to
$1,300 and they want Grandpa Herb to give
them a $1,000 check tomorrow.

God, it seems so expensive to die. I asked


about a less expensive funeral, and the man, a
guy my own age, said, “Sure, for $400 we can
take the body, put in the grave in a cardboard
box. But that’s not a funeral, it’s a disposal.”

It was eerie to go down in the elevator, the


man, Grandpa Herb, Uncle Irving and I, into
this room where all the caskets were. Some
were plush and magnificent and cost $1,000.

Grandpa Herb told them man, “Well, it’s his


young kids’ money, and we don’t want to take
it away from them,” and Irving said sharply,
rightly so, “You don’t have to explain it to
them.”

We filled out all the forms: giving Uncle Abe’s


next of kin, his parents’ name (I knew Bubbe
Ita’s maiden name because of my research on
the Katzman genealogy).

Uncle Abe belonged to the Knights of Pythias,


and they have a plot for him out in New
Montefiore Cemetery, in Suffolk (near where
Uncle Monty was buried last year).

Back at the apartment in Rockaway, Grandma


Ethel was very upset; it was she whom the
hospital called to tell the news to. Aunt Tillie
and Aunt Minnie were crying, but not as much
as Grandma Ethel.

They’d all seen him in the past two days and


he was really bad. Mitch and Eddie couldn’t be
located, but Aunt Betty managed to get hold of
Mitch’s girlfriend Katje, and finally she called
us.

Luckily Mitch had planned to come back to


Brooklyn tonight; he doesn’t have a phone
where he goes to school in Jersey. Eddie is at
work, or he was then.

Abe suffered so. He got sick eight years ago,


then his wife died suddenly; these last three
years were pure hell for him. Tomorrow at
noon is the funeral.
Dad just spoke to Grandma Sylvia; Aunt Violet
came back to New York today, but Grandma
Sylvia is managing on her own. A man who
also lives at the condominium drove her to the
nursing home today.

Grandma Sylvia says sometimes Grandpa Nat


makes sense when he talks to her, and other
times he doesn’t. He waved to her when she
left today and then went back to watching TV.

I feel crushed by the weight of all this pain, but


unlike the way I felt a week ago, I don’t feel
like giving up. I was looking forward to
meeting that guy Steve tomorrow and now
that’s impossible. Probably I’ll never get to
meet him now. Tonight I’m obligated to Laura
and Harvey go to Ron’s house, and I will go but
I’ll try to leave as early as I can.

Today was so humid and cloudy. Last night I


dreamed Marc and Deanna got married and
had a baby. Mom says that dream may come
true: marc’s talking about marriage if he can
set himself up financially if Dad’s deal with
Jimmy ever comes off.

I think Marc and Deanna just may just be able


to have a good marriage. She’s utterly naive,
if not dumb, but a sweeter person one could
not imagine. Deanna could become someone
like Grandma Ethel, with almost a saintly
personality.

Of course, saintly people are prone to


headaches, upset stomachs and high blood
pressure because they never can express their
anger.

I feel so confused now. All these unexpected


things have happened this summer. Now I’m
supposed to be going to Bread Loaf and I’m not
sure I want to go there.

But maybe getting away is exactly what I need.


Today I did a self-interview, a half-serious
parody of literary interviews. It’s a style – the
whole question-and-answer mode – that I find
easy to make fun of and work with. It’s just
flexing literary muscles rather than literature.

Wednesday, August 11, 1976

5 PM. See, I knew I’d be feeling better. I did


force myself to get out of the house yesterday
afternoon, and thank goodness for that. I
drove up to Morningside Heights to attend a
poetry reading at Columbia.

I was early and I walked around Broadway; I


had forgotten how fond I am of that
neighborhood. The reading was in the Dodge
Room of Earl Hall, and there was punch and
cookies, and young people with whom I could
feel some sort of kinship.

The poet, Daniel Halpern, editor of Antaeus,


who has rejected many of my stories, is a
baby-faced young guy, chubby with an Afro.
He seems very shy and engaging, and his
poems were all good. It’s clear he has a
respect for words, the one thing all decent
poets have in common.

Halpern said he hadn’t written in a year until


recently, and then he started writing a poem a
day. I understand how frustrating it must have
been for him. Anyway, I enjoyed myself and
left feeling much better than when I had come
in.

I wish I could’ve expressed it to the poet, how


good he made me feel, but I’m too shy when it
comes to telling the truth. Anyhow, today I
wrote him a letter, thanking him for doing good
things for me with his poetry.

I lingered on campus for a while, scribbling into


my notebook on the steps of Low Library; then
I went over to Hungry Mac’s and had dinner. I
must go up to Columbia more often.

At home, Marc and I tried to convince Mom and


Dad that only an idiot would get married these
days. I believe that most people get married
for only one reason: fear of loneliness.

Mom kept saying how ridiculous my arguments


against marriage were, and then Grandpa Nat
walks in. “You’re a man who’s been married
for over 55 years,” I said, putting the question
to him. “If you were young today, would you
get married?”
Grandpa Nat said, “You’ve got to be crazy to
get married.”

I turned to Mom as the others were laughing


and said, “I rest my case.”

Tonight Mom and Dad leave for ten days of


looking for a business in Florida; Dad is
pessimistic and Mom is desperate to move
down there. Whatever happens with them, I
know I can see my way clear on my own.

If anything, this last week has proven that


working
9-to-5 is not the hell I’ve always pictured it as
being, and I’ll gladly work full-time to support
myself if that’s necessary. There will always be
time to write.

Last night and this morning I worked on and


finished an entirely new version of “The Popish
Plot.” It’s less marketable than the first
unfinished version, but it’s more me: playful,
ironic, a collection of incidents and anecdotes
replacing the function of plot.

Last weekend I was on the wrong track, trying


to study and replicate the stories of Ann
Beattie and other “successful” short story
writers, when it’s impossible for me to imitate
them successfully. I’d rather work at being a
first-rate Richard Grayson than a second-rate
Ann Beattie.

So I won’t get my stories in The New Yorker.


Or the American Review, either; I got another
rejection from them today. Luckily I was in a
confident mood and immediately sent them a
new submission. I am prepared to keep doing
that until either the magazine or I stop
functioning.

Today was a warm, sunny day, and I lay out on


the beach at Rockaway – yay! – tanning my
cute little body and reading Gorky’s My
Childhood. Look, life is not so bad. I expect
depression at this point in my life, and I know
there will be good times, too.

Besides, it’s the only game in town at the


moment. Life is unfair, but once you’ve
accepted that, it’s a lot easier. I wouldn’t trade
places with anyone else for a minute.

Tomorrow I have to work, and Friday as well.


It’s a drag, but if I weren’t working, not working
would be the drag. (The paradox of human
nature.)

Saturday, August 12, 1978

4 PM. About an hour ago I was in a car


accident. It happened right on my block, on
the corner of Fillmore and East 56th, and I
believe it was my fault.

I was making a left turn and a car seemed to


come out of nowhere. Perhaps it came “out of
nowhere” because I was thinking too much.
I was coming from the copy center and I was
curling the copy center owner’s words around
in my head: “You’re a celebrity now.” He had
seen the Flatbush Life article. And then we
crashed.

My car’s side went into his car’s front. Neither


of us was hurt. The guy was in a hurry, we
exchanged names and phone numbers, he said
he’d call (he doesn’t have collision), and that
was that.

He’d thought I was going to go through the


intersection; I’d assumed he was; and over-
polite, we both stopped and smashed into one
another.

At home I told Dad, who immediately started


screaming, screaming and stamping his feel
like a madman. It seemed he’d just had a big
problem with a pipe bursting by the pool. The
more he raged, the calmer I became.

Mom came up to scream at me: “You’re


making Daddy sick; he might have get a heart
attack.” I assured Mom that if he wanted to
rant and rave and make himself ill, it was his
own choice.

So, without Dad’s advice, I settled with this guy


on my own, giving him $40. I was probably at
fault – although I believe it was a mistake I am
entitled to. We can say I was sideswiped in a
parking lot or whatever, and we’ll collect,
though my insurance rates will probably go up.
I don’t care if I’ve done something foolish and
irresponsible. Dad didn’t want to help me, and
I did it by myself and I’m willing to take the
consequences.

I don’t really need that car anyway. I really


don’t. Strangely enough, instead of feeling
depressed, I feel quietly confident. I feel like
an adult. The other driver was very nice and
calm about the whole thing and so was I.

Mom and Dad will rant and rave, as they are


now, about my being “an imbecile, a moron,
stupid, and a jerk,” but I’ll try not to let their
words affect me. I am going to Albany in the
winter and I don’t need a car up there.

I can manage here without a car until then if I


have to. I can handle anything, any crisis,
anybody’s death but my own. I see that I’ve
handled this accident well. It hasn’t really
upset me; it’s only a piece of bent, twisted
metal, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a
piece of bent, twisted metal make me ill.

It’s also shown me that dreaming about being


a celebrity can be, quite literally, dangerous. I
see now, also, that while I get furious with
Ronna for being so low-key, she is right to act
so unruffled all the time.

I’ve been mimicking my father’s Type-A


behavior, the Type-A behavior that effectively,
if not totally, ended Grandpa Nat’s life. If I
don’t learn this lesson, it will cost me much
more dearly than a ruined fender and bumper.
Does my accident a year and a half ago matter
now? Not one bit. And there’s no sense
engaging in that useless exercise of “If only’s.”

I got a letter from Avis today, and she’s


definitely going to be home for Christmas. She
doesn’t think any drug charges will be brought
against her, either. And though she hates her
job and her boss, she’ll stick with it. Avis would
love to get pregnant, “but now is not the time.”

I also got a letter from the president of some


New York publishing firm, Taplinger. He read
my story in Epoch and asked if I’ve got a book
for him.

Monday, August 13, 1979

Midnight. I’ve just gotten home. Mom was on


the phone with Dad when I walked in. Marc
and Jonny are out. I’m certain Mom misses
Dad very much; in thirty years, they’ve never
been apart for very long, and they are terribly
dependent upon one another.

Today was a gorgeous day, sunny and mild.


For the last four weeks, each Tuesday or
Wednesday has brought some good news
about my book: the Arthur Bell column notice
in the Voice, Wes’s calls with news of the
reviews in the L.A. Times, Cleveland Plain
Dealer, and (hopefully it will come out) People.
Obviously I can’t hope for anything as good
this week, but being human, I can’t help
hoping. I’m definitely running out of ideas to
push my book. I sent out half a dozen letters
today, but I’ve done just about everything for
the time being.

I do feel guilty about not working actively at


some kind of promotion, and I found it a bit
difficult to just relax today. I got one surprise
call: from my old public school and junior high
school buddy, Jerry Lowenstein.

He saw the Post article and thought he’d look


me up; he, too, still lives in the neighborhood
although he’s planning to get married soon to a
girl he’s been going with for five years.

Jerry went to LIU but never finished (he got an


Incomplete in English with Dr. Tucker), got
interested in radio, ran Crazy Eddie’s Kings
Highway store, and for the last three years has
been selling insurance.

We talked about old times and people from the


old days, and Jerry asked me to have lunch
with him on Thursday. We don’t have much in
common, but I have little to do these days, and
it should be fun to talk over old times at school.

Dr. Lipton wrote me a wonderful letter and


even sent me a check for one dollar as a
contribution to my Vice Presidential campaign,
saying he hopes it will get me to New
Hampshire – “or at least Vermont.” I must visit
Dr. Lipton soon.
The University of Portland Review’s spring
issue arrived with my story, “A Distant Death”
(not a good one, but very traditional, with a
protagonist based on Ronna’s mother) inside.

I spoke to Ronna this afternoon; she was


working on a story for the Canarsie Digest that
she had to hand in later. She still hasn’t
rewritten her résumé or checked out any
newspapers.

Yesterday I told Alice I didn’t really care about


seeing Ronna, even as a friend, but I must
really like her because she’s on my mind a lot.
Ronna said she almost called me yesterday;
she was feeling very sentimental after finding
her 1974 diary and reading about entries about
me (“most of them good stuff”).

I was heading for Josh’s at 6 PM, and I knew


Ronna was planning to meet Jordan for dinner
in the Heights and then spend the night either
with him or with her sister, so I offered to drive
her there.

I hadn’t seen Ronna in months. She looked


well but older; her hair is going gray and
getting thin. On the drive to the Heights, I
asked her about her love life.

Jordan is in love with her, but she doesn’t want


anything permanent so she says it’s just as
well that he’s returning to law school in Boston
in two weeks. Her romance with that other guy
never really happened, and now their
friendship isn’t so solid.

I told Ronna I had an affair with a 19-year-old


boy (of course I was thinking of Bill-Dale).
Why? Part wish-dream, part to gauge her
reaction (she was very cool about the whole
thing), part to assure her that I’m not
interested in her sexually anymore. Perhaps
we really can be friends; I’d like that.

I visited Josh’s Hicks Street apartment, which is


not my sort of place (I’m too middle class) but I
found it comfortable and not at all as cramped
as he says it is. We then went over to Simon’s
on Bergen Street.

Simon’s apartment had been broken into


today, along with two others in his brownstone,
by kids from the block – one of whom was
caught by the cops. Simon is insured for theft
and we were planning how he could make
some money from the insurance.

He finally agreed to say the following items


were taken: Josh’s saxophone, Simon’s flute,
two watches and a clock radio. The last two
items actually were stolen.

Sunday, August 14, 1977

10 PM. I’ve just been reading an article in the


Sunday Times magazine section on the logician
Saul Kripke, the most brilliant of American
analytical philosophers at 36, and Gary’s
second cousin. (He’s the nephew of Gary’s
father’s cousin Doris, whom I drove to Gary
and Betty’s wedding.)

As a fiction writer, I’m fascinated by what I can


understand of Kripke’s truth theory, and I have
a gut feeling the man will become a towering
figure in philosophy, another Descartes or
Hume.

Can we quantify language and human


emotions? I’m much too stupid to even ask
that question, but I’d like to learn more. Kripke
is a true genius, the kind of man who makes
me glad I let my Mensa membership lapse.

At age three, Kripke was aware of difficult


philosophical concepts; at six, he taught
himself Hebrew; by fourth grade he had
“discovered” algebra and read all of
Shakespeare. I’m in awe of such pure
brilliance, the Einsteinian kind.

Now I may be a clever fellow, but as Soames


Forsyte said of one of is duller cousins, I’ll
“never set the Thames on fire.” I don’t regret
not being a real genius, but I wish my talent
were more substantial and less superficial.

I have no doubt that I’ll be a success, but in the


end the world will have changed little for my
being here. Who is it that defined true genius
as influencing those who’ve never even heard
of you?
Realistically (but what does that word mean?), I
know I’ll never get there. I have the energy
and the talent, but no solid concepts – no new
ones, anyway. Still, I’m a fairly nice fellow and
I would like to try my best.

It’s been a dreary, rainy weekend. I ventured


into Manhattan both yesterday and today,
attending a rained-out “festival of soap opera
stars” in Bryant Park, wandering through
bookstores, looking at people on the streets,
being handed cards that urge me to see the
“beautiful girls – belles mustaches – only $10 –
nothing extra.”

I talked to Gary and also Alice, who had been


crying after one of her semi-annual spats with
Andreas.

Grandpa Nat gets no better, and I guess I’ve


pretty much accepted the fact that the man I
knew is gone. Perhaps this will make is death,
whenever it comes, a bit easier to adjust to.

I’m practically ready to leave for Bread Loaf. I


spent several hours getting my manuscripts in
order today. I’m going to have to buy a few
things tomorrow, but I’ve got pretty much
everything.

Part of me wishes I could stay here and be


comfortable in familiar surroundings for the
next two weeks. I hate leaving my routines, I
worry about missing my mail, and about having
to share a room with a strange person (for
example, when can I be alone to exercise or,
yes, to masturbate?).

I’m not looking forward to the regimen of


meals at specific hours and no bathroom to
myself and other barbarities – including lack of
TV, radio and newspapers. I’m going to have
to give up some freedom and do things on
other people’s schedules.

Actually, as I write this, I’m experiencing the


sinking feeling that I will hate the Writers’
Conference. I don’t expect it to be very useful
to my work. I couldn’t imagine Virginia Woolf
of Henry Miller or Joyce or Kafka or Proust or D.
H. Lawrence going to something like Bread
Loaf.

I’m not really excited about anyone on the


staff. They’re all competent craftsmen and
craftswomen, but no one who astounds me. (I
can’t even read John Gardner – and until
recently, when I heard the name I would
invariably think first of the Common Cause
guy.)

And I dread the seven-hour bus ride, and the


hour before it, and the hour it will take to get
to the Bread Loaf campus. I’ve always had a
phobia about traveling.

Now I don’t expect to have any serious panic (I


expect mild anxiety attacks, but I’ll survive
them, and re-experiencing them will probably
do me some good). But it’s the annoyance of it
all.
I know that another part of me loves the sense
of adventure involved, though. And if I don’t
like it there, I can always get the next bus
home.

Sunday, August 15, 1976

4 PM. I’ve just been reading over my diary


entries for the first three months of 1971. I
was practically rolling on the floor with laughter
at my attitudes and what I thought was
important.

But aside from being sophomoric (which is


altogether fitting, considering I was a college
sophomore at the time), my writing is filled
with a delightful naïveté and innocence.

Those were wonderful times: I was falling in


love for the first time, I was a big shot in
student government, I had nothing to do but
schoolwork and attending to the romantic lives
of others.

Things were so simple then. Nixon and the war


was bad; anyone who was against you was a
“fascist”; nobody had heard of decadence; you
either loved somebody or you didn’t; no one
worked or bothered to think that someday the
boom would end.

For me, and I think for the others I mention in


the diary – Shelli, Ronna, Ivan, Elspeth, Elihu,
Jerry, Leon and the countless others I keep
name-dropping – it was a magical time of being
half-child and half-adult, of having no
responsibilities and no burdens.

The things I fretted about back then now seem


so absurd, yet somehow touching – and the
joys of discovering personhood seem fresher
than ever.

I’m impressed at the readability of my 1971


diary, and I’m more than ever convinced that I
have the raw material of a fine novel, if only I
could find the right form.

The Hamilton Years was perhaps only a


fledgling effort to see if I could get all the
material down on paper. I must soon attempt
a second version of the novel. For half a year I
haven’t been able to read through the first
version – but now I’m so far removed from the
actual events of 1971-1973 that I can work on
transforming them into fiction with more
perspective.

I do have a nice little story about growing up in


college, and it’s just possible that it may be of
interest to others.

Reading my diary from five and a half years


ago was kind of spooky in that I wonder how I
got from there to here. And it struck me that
I’d love to re-live those days; in fact, if I were
allowed to live my entire life over again, doing
the same things I did, I wouldn’t hesitate a
minute before saying, “Yes, I’ll do it!”
I fell asleep watching The Blue Angel last night
and woke early today, breakfasted, cleaned,
went marketing and then into the city to see
The Ritz, which was good for several chuckles.

Caaron wrote me again, and I enjoy her letters.


She’s been depressed over having no job; I
think it’s the old out-of-college blues. Caaron
sent me a photo of herself, and while she
cautioned that she doesn’t “look so fuzzy in
real life,” I can see she’s pretty in a dark, petite
way. I wrote her back already. As always, am I
too obvious?

Also, the main brought my final transcripts


from BC; I have indeed graduated with an MFA
– and with a 3.83 index, it turns out. I’d love to
take courses again this fall; I noticed that the
Queens College adult education program is
offering a certificate in gerontology, and that
might be worth looking into.

I’ve always been interested in old people


because of the special relationship I’ve had
with my grandparents. I can sense a lot of
changes to come in my life, and by now I’ve
almost convinced myself that the family
moving to Florida may be the best thing that
could happen.

For I’ll be forced to live on my own and support


myself; otherwise I might not have attempted
it so soon. (Really, so late.) The idea of living
alone, taking care of myself and being a real
adult at last is very exciting.
Thursday, August 16, 1979

4 PM. I feel kind of down – not depressed, just


a bit sad. I got a course at the School of Visual
Arts and I turned down two courses at St.
Peter’s College in Jersey City in the hopes that I
can get two CUNY courses, either at Brooklyn,
Kingsborough or Queensborough. I have been
reappointed at BC, and there seem to be
enough courses so that I could teach two – or
at least one.

This adjunct business is a terribly nerve-


wracking way to live. What if I did myself in by
turning down the courses at St. Peter’s? I wish
I knew what I was doing.

The president of the School of Visual Arts,


David Rhodes, was a blue-jeaned man not
much older than I am. We had a pleasant talk
and I made a good impression, and he
approved me to teach Humanities 108,
Tuesdays and Thursdays, 9 AM to 10:20 AM.

The course pays $1,200, which is very good.


I’ll have to commute in the rush hour two days
a week, but I suppose I’ll manage.

It was a cool day, almost unnaturally cool, and


today I didn’t feel the same pleasure as I did in
the hint of fall’s arrival as I did yesterday.

On the way back from Visual Arts, I dropped by


Taplinger to see Wes, who showed me the
manuscripts he was working on, one of his last
projects before he leaves.

Taplinger is gearing up for their fall season;


they’ve got Scott’s book and another novel,
which is a book club selection – and now With
Hitler in New York is just another book from
last season.

Small press publishing is so much more


humane. It hit me today – and this is the cause
of my sadness – that Taplinger never really
intended to push my book. They’ve been
amused by the publicity I’ve gotten, but
nothing more than that, not really.

Even if People comes out with a rave review,


that won’t sell any copies. They never got the
book to the bookstores and now it’s too late. I
wonder if I could buy the paperback rights to
my book and publish it under my own imprint.

The only way my book could ever make it is in


paperback – and I think I could do a good job
by myself. I tried so hard this summer and I
did get results, but not good enough results.

It’s hard for me to think that I’ve failed and


realistically I know that I haven’t. But now
summer dreams turn into autumn reality, and
I’ve got to get back to teaching. I don’t mind;
I’m looking forward to my class at Visual Arts.

Yet I feel I’m in for the biggest letdown of my


life. I’m scared. I have to worry now about
paying rent and bills of all kinds and shopping
and cleaning and everything.

Well, maybe it’s for the best. I might start


writing again. I guess my efforts to promote
With Hitler in New York are coming to an end.
As I said, maybe I can go back to writing now.

Hey, I got a letter from the Virginia Center for


the Creative Arts; the mansion at Mount Saint
Angelo burned to the ground a few weeks ago.
No one, thank God, was injured, but some
Fellows lost everything they’d brought with
them: manuscripts, clothing, personal effects.

If I had gone there as scheduled, I would have


lost all my diaries. So stop being a gloomy
Grayson, Grayson. You appear to be leading a
charmed life. I think I’m going to make a
contribution to help the people who lost things
in the fire.

Susan Lawton sent me the sheet that someone


printed the Page Six article on; it’s the work of
a nut who doesn’t know me. I called him and
he said he just thought that it was a funny
article that illustrated one of his crazy points.

Judith Appelbaum, co-author of How to Get


Happily Published, wrote that she’s going to
use my story of the letter I sent to Harry
Hoffman of Waldenbooks in their next edition
of the book. Jerry Lowenstein canceled our
lunch today, which was just as well.
Thursday, August 17, 1978

10 PM. A good deal has happened in the two


days since my pen has last met these pages.
(Pompous opening?) I’m tired now, but it’s a
triumphant weariness because I’ve been busy
and life is going on.

Yesterday morning I was awakened by a call


from Louis Strick, president of Taplinger
Publishing. He’d received my letter (“your
diffident letter,” he called it) and the
newspaper article and a few stories that I’d
sent him.

He explained that he took over Taplinger a


year ago and is changing it from a house
dependent upon library sales into a trade
publisher. He asked me to come to his office
at Union Square; I met him today at 2 PM.

Louis Strick is a handsome, instantly likable


man of 53 (though he looks much younger).
He said he responded to the Brooklyn Jewish
themes in my work; he grew up on Avenue D
and East 46th Street, went to P.S. 208 and was
in the second graduating class at Midwood.

He got involved in publishing because he’s


always been interested in writing. He and
Arthur Cohn were the first to publish Goodbye,
Columbus and Gaddis’s The Recognitions in
paperback.
He’s married for the second time and has a
five-year-old daughter; from his first marriage
he has a son, Wesley, who writes for Rolling
Stone (who will be joining him as an editor) and
a daughter, Ivy, my age (whose first novel he’s
publishing this fall).

He’s friends with people like John Ashbery and


Ted Solotaroff. He explained that Taplinger
has always operated in the black, and now that
he’s in the driver’s seat, he intends to turn it
into a major independent publisher – in the
face of the concentration of conglomerate
takeovers and “bottom-line” decisions.

“I take risks – calculated ones,” he said, “and I


can afford to publish books that I like.” He
showed me his fall/winter catalogue, which
seems fine; it’s obvious he cares a great deal
about the books he publishes, like an old-time
Alfred Knopf or Bennett Cerf.

Mr. Strick told me I was “very talented” and


that I shouldn’t worry about not writing a
novel: “If you write good stories, that’s fine.” I
guess he thinks my work is saleable; he’s more
optimistic than I am.

I gave him all my published stories in my


binder, and he’s going to read them over the
weekend in Fire Island. If he likes them, he’ll
get in touch with me next week.

Being with Louis Strick was an interesting and


pleasant experience even if nothing comes of it
– which is what I have to believe will happen.
I’ve got to be complacent about this because
real life isn’t supposed to work out this way. I
never expected a New York trade publisher
would ever want to touch me – not, at least,
until I was more established in the small
presses.

And you’re supposed to go through a zillion


rejections; the head of a publishing firm isn’t
supposed to contact you. It’s very dreamlike. I
can’t believe he thinks I’m that good.

Secretly, you see, I feel that if I had a book


published with Taplinger I’d be a real writer. I
mean, I’m beginning to feel disdainful toward
the small presses already. No, not disdainful –
if it weren’t for little magazines, I’d be
nowhere.

But I can’t help feeling This is the real world, a


business, not something subsidized by the
government or a university or an art-loving
individual.

Oh, I can’t think about it anymore at all – not


one more word.

I had two brilliant classes on The


Metamorphosis and The Fox last night and
tonight; I’ve been very pleased with my class
(which is now two-thirds of the way through the
term).

Grandma Ethel may have to stay in the


hospital beyond next week, and that’s making
it rough on Grandpa Herb, who’s not taking
care of himself well.

Dad went to see the chief of neck surgery at


Brookdale, and I think this doctor will do the
operation, but he’s going on vacation next
week.

I’ve been writing, oddly enough, and it’s been


95°each day. I feel a bit like a stranger
towards myself.

Thursday, August 18, 1977

4 PM. So much has happened in the last 24


hours. It’s all a blur, really, and there’s no time
for anything to sink in, but I’m sure these
events and the impressions I have of them will
be with me for a long time.

After writing yesterday’s entry, I smoked some


hash with Bob and Charles, then fell into a sort
of restful semi-sleep. At 5 PM David came back,
and I persuaded him to drive into town. It was
a relief to get back to the real world. I hadn’t
realized (how did I miss it?) that we are on the
top of a mountain.

The drive into town was fun; we smoked a joint


on the way and that really relaxed me. The
sun had come out by the time we pulled into
town, and that made it pleasant.
Middlebury is so beautiful; it makes you think
you’re in some kind of fantasy place. The
stores on Main Street are so neat and snug,
whether it’s the health food place or the
drugstore with a real soda fountain and
popcorn machine or the boutiques.

We stopped in at Lazarus’ Clothing Store,


where David looked at the jackets, comparing
them to the ones he and his father make; I
know that syndrome.

There’s a creek running right across Main


Street, and it’s beautiful to stand on the bridge
and watch the water flow on the glistening
rocks. We stopped at Tony’s Pizza for some
drinks.

I think it’s cute that even here, there are such


obvious ethnic types like Lazarus and Tony
doing their thing. Vermonters impress me with
their courtesy and their progressiveness –
there are no roadside billboards and the soda
cans have press-ins, not flip-tops, and there’s a
five-cent refund on the aluminum.

David and I ate in the Rosebud Café, a


marvelously hip place with a nice atmosphere:
stained glass, weathered wood, antique stoves.
I had a sandwich that was delicious, white
meat turkey with mayo and lettuce on
pumpernickel in a basket of potato chips and
pickles. I had Red Zinger herb tea, and they
served it with honey, not sugar.
The drive back to Bread Loaf was so relaxing, I
couldn’t believe it. Driving really fast on the
curves was exhilarating and David’s tapes were
playing and the sun was setting and I felt
better than I had since coming here.

We made it back to the Little Theater just in


time for John Irving’s reading of the start of his
forthcoming novel The World According to
Garp, which sounds like it will be hilarious; I
wasn’t bored for a minute. I walked back in the
dark with Kevin, Bob and Charles.

Traipsing up the road to Gilmore somehow


reminded me of that recurring scene in
Buñuel’s The Discreet Charm of the
Bourgeoisie. I looked up and was amazed –
almost intoxicated – by so many bright stars,
something I’d never seen before in my life.

Last night I went down to the study with Rick


and Greg and David, and we sat by the fire and
read each other’s work. I think it’s neat to be
living in a house where twelve guys in their
twenties are all reading To the Lighthouse.
(Idea for story: A dozen guys, each reading a
different Virginia Woolf novel, are living in a
house in the woods. Title: “Virginia Woolf Is For
Lovers.”)

I slept well, and although I had an attack of


severe nausea this morning, it didn’t last long.
Carl Dennis (who showed me his Braziller-
published poetry books) drove to the “main”
campus and I had breakfast with Leslea
Newman.
I attended each lecture today. Toni Morrison
spoke about a “useable past” in fiction and
read from the new Song of Solomon. Marvin
Bell gave a brilliant lecture on receptivity being
important to creativity and seemed to stress
instinct, readiness, and continuous working –
he said the more you do something, the better
you get at it.

John Gardner got me appropriately riled with


his talk of “Moral Fiction,” attacking post-
modernist textured fiction (Gass, Barthelme,
Sukenick, Barth) for not having any values or
philosophy at bottom.

I had a discussion group with John Gardner


from
2 PM to 3:30 PM and he was fascinating; I did
my share of talking and got him to admit that
he was using overkill, that of course texture is
important – but only if it’s “in service” (my
words, with which he agreed) to character, plot
and values.

Gardner is a strange-looking man with that


Veronica Lake-like blond hair but he’s sweet
and smart, and he’s leading me to rethink
some of my preexisting ideas about fiction. And
that’s good.

Thursday, August 19, 1976


4 PM. I didn’t work today either. Last night Mr.
Farber called while I was out and then I called
him twice and he wasn’t in, so we never got
together, which is probably just as well.

I haven’t been feeling well all week: just


krenks, nothing serious, but I really didn’t feel
up to going to Far Rockaway this morning.

Later today I have an Alumni Association


Finance Committee meeting; I got a notice last
week from David Pollard that it will be held in
Ira Harkavy’s law offices. But I don’t think I
shall go.

I hate to give in to my sinusitis (the pressure


behind one eye is driving me crazy) but I don’t
feel like giving much of myself to committee
meetings today.

I did not stay up to watch the balloting for


President last light; it was obvious that Gerald
Ford would be nominated, which he was, at
about 2 AM, by a rather small (as these things
go) over Ronald Reagan.

Reagan and his “running mate” Sen. Schweiker


held a tearful press conference today to thank
supporters; it was quite touching in a way. It
must be hard to devote a year or more of your
life in question of something only to have it
denied by a narrow victory by the other side.

Ford picked Kansas Sen. Bob Dole as his


candidate for Vice President; it was somewhat
of a surprise, and it will probably make for a
rather dull campaign. One of the reasons I
plan on skipping the Alumni meeting is that I
want to watch the acceptance speeches
tonight.

I slept well, and I had one particularly pleasant


dream in which Ronna presented me with a
baby. Does a paternal instinct actually exist
somewhere within my foolish heart?

Gary called from his sister’s house last evening


and he said he’d never been happier in his life.
He and Betty have found their “dream
apartment” in a North Brunswick development
and they’ve set a date – October 10th – for their
wedding.

Gary loves his job and he’ll be moving into his


new apartment next month, with Betty
following after their wedding. I used to put
down Gary’s dreams of connubial bliss in
suburbia, but it seems to be what he needs.

I almost wish I were Gary and could be satisfied


with something like that. But for now, I’m
willing to risk loneliness, financial instability
and emotional security to get where I want to
go, to do what I want to do.

Basically I’m doing that right now. Alice


phoned yesterday and put June on the phone;
June is now working at Seventeen too. June is
Steve Sasanoff’s brother Richard’s wife and the
editor of the Flatbush Tenant, a newspaper
distributed to tenants (who else?) in buildings
in – you guessed it – Flatbush.
She had asked Alice to do an article on Junior’s
Restaurant, but Alice won’t be able to do it
because her brother is coming in for the
weekend.

So I said I’d do it, and this morning I went down


to Junior’s to interview the Rosen brothers,
owners of the place since it opened in 1951.
They weren’t very cooperative, and the 1,000-
word article I’ve written is a puff piece – but it’s
supposed to be, June tells me.

Also, I’ve fictionalized a customer and a


waitress who gave me very quote quotes. I’m
sure Alice’s article would have been a dozen
times better. It’s very hard for me to write that
kind of an article.

Fiction is a lot easier; in this kind of piece, my


voice is strained and somewhat unnatural.
Still, I’m supposed get $25 if they print it, and
that’s pretty good.

Sunday, August 20, 1978

8 PM. Today was dark and cool, although it’s


clearing now, just as the sun is being lost. I
look out my window and see only a few wispy
dark clouds. The street lights are already on.

I spent all day today indoors, reading when I


wasn’t exercising, eating, or flossing my teeth.
(I have to go to the dentist tomorrow and I
don’t want to hear a lecture about how bad my
gums are.)

The summer is ending; my tan is fading;


already kids like my cousins Wendy and Jeffrey
are returning from camp. Night falls earlier
now.

I was just imagining how it must be on Bread


Loaf Mountain now. In some respects I wish I
was back there again this year. It’s a very pure
kind of life, there in the woods. I regret having
not gotten away all this summer.

As I mentioned, I’ve been reading an awful lot:


criticism of Katherine Anne Porter, Richard
Wright and Carson McCullers for teaching the
last three short novels in class, and Jerry
Klinkowitz’s criticism in The Life of Fiction.

The more I read, the less well-read I discover I


am. I’d love to read more Porter and Wright
(I’ve read all of McCullers’ books) and I need to
read for myself the books of Ishmael Reed,
Hunter S. Thompson, Michael Stephens and
others.

With no Sunday papers to distract me, I’ve


gotten a great deal done. I’ve been making
notes for my teaching, too. And I’ve even been
writing a bit: nothing great, but the mind is
flowing smoothly.

I’ve been so absent-minded with everyday


things, however. I’ve been giving $2 to pay $3
checks at Junior’s; I let the elevator pass my
floor at LIU without getting off; last night I left
the freezer door open and all the ice cream
melted.

I am beginning to express to myself my doubts


about going to Albany, and I need to resolve
them. In a way, I almost hope that Louis Strick
reluctantly decides he can’t get enough good
material for Taplinger to publish my book, for
that would make it so much easier to go to
Albany.

I made the decision to move because there


was nothing else for me to do; it looked as
though I was just going to continue to publish
in little magazines for no money and little
recognition, with LIU a dead end, and living
with my parents getting intolerable.

I can’t, of course, say how I’ll feel when Mr.


Strick turns me down, but I hope I will take it
philosophically: easy come, easy go. And it
does seem too easy to be really worthwhile.

This is known as “preparing yourself to get bad


news” – or maybe it’s sour grapes in advance.
I do, really, want to keep myself honest. Bruce
Springsteen keeps himself honest by playing
Buddy Holly just before he goes on at a
concert.

I should read more work by writers I admire,


like Kafka. Maybe in graduate school in
Albany, I can get it together; personally and
career-wise, being away might give me enough
distance to begin a novel.
I could very easily see myself becoming jaded
and shrill and unbearable if fame and/or
fortune came too quickly. Or is Albany a cop-
out, a way to hide from the world and my place
in it?

Yes, I do have mixed feelings about having a


book published; it would complicate an already
too-complicated situation. I’d have to start
being a real adult.

Which reminds me, it’s just about ten years


ago that my breakdown began. I remember
that skinny little 17-year-old kid from 1968: he
was so fucked-up and he was a coward, but I
don’t blame him for retreating from the world.

I’m hardly in touch with what he/I felt ten years


ago. I didn’t begin my diary until August 1969,
remember? When I finally complete a whole
decade of these pages, when I come to the
diary page marked August 1, 1979, where will I
be then?

Tuesday, August 21, 1979

4 PM. I’ve just come back from that job


interview at New York City Community College.
I stopped in first to visit Dad’s cousin Dean
Fred Klanit, who was very friendly.

In passing, he mentioned that he keeps a file


on adjuncts who teach more than two courses
at CUNY; it’s a bad idea “because it puts a
black mark next to your name.”

I was interviewed for an hour by Fannie


Eisenstein, Dean of Continuing Education and
Extension Services, as well as three others. I
think I made a reasonably good presentation,
but I’m sure I don’t want the job of Evening
Coordinator.

There’s a great deal of detailed work involved,


and I’d end up becoming just another
administrative bureaucrat. Also, the salary
isn’t great, there are no benefits, and I would
have to stay virtually alone in the building at
night.

They told me they weren’t considering women


for the job because of “the frequency of purse-
snatchings and sexual assaults.” I don’t like
the area near the school in downtown Brooklyn
and I have no business wasting my creative
energies on such a job.

I’ve got to realize that there are going to be


offers for jobs and fellowships that I cannot
accept; it’s a lot better than if it were the other
way around.

Last night I arrived at Josh’s before 8:30 PM


and I waited for him and Simon to come back
from dinner. Simon was hired as the night
cook at Parker’s, a new overpriced French
restaurant on Atlantic Avenue.
I drove Simon home, as he didn’t want to come
with us to Manhattan. His neighborhood is
frightening at night; I didn’t even like driving
through it.

Josh and I parked in the Village and walked


around for an hour. We ran into Helene, a
friend of Simon’s, and chatted with her.

She went to Visual Arts and said that most


students won’t take my course very seriously.
They all think they’re super-hip, which makes
me a little nervous. (Last night I had my first
anxiety attack about teaching there.)

Josh and I went to Kenny’s Castaways, and by


chance they seated Josh and me near the
tables where Wes, Marla and their friends were
sitting. Marla brought out a copy of my book
and I autographed it for Jack, that guy I met
last fall that Saturday when Wes and I were
editing the stories.

We sat through several horrendous acts; each


performer seemed to be a parody of himself.
When Wes finally got on, I was glad to hear
Josh say that he was okay; I know nothing
about music and it’s hard for me to separate
my feelings for a friend and an objective
appraisal of his talents.

Wes’s songs, like Springsteen’s, haunt me. I


love his rich images and his piano playing and
his hip, soulful voice. But maybe that’s only
because it’s Wes. If I’m not in love with him,
I’m pretty close to it; all afternoon I had a sort
of dull but pleasant ache when I thought about
his playing tonight.

Later Wes asked me about the Village Voice


Bulletin Board ad and he laughed when I told
him about it. At the end of the evening I kissed
and hugged Marla. I can’t help feeling very
fond of her, and I know her friendship toward
me is genuine because she’s one of those rare
people who are guileless.

It was a nice drive home last night, dropping


Josh off in the Heights and then heading down
Ocean Parkway. I love Brooklyn in the
summer, especially late at night when it’s quiet
and few people are about.

No review in this week’s People. I am


saddened by the knowledge that nothing more
will happen with my book. It’s getting too
close to fall to get reviews in newspapers and
magazines. I would have loved to have the
satisfaction of seeing just one copy of my book
in a store or a library, though.

I haven’t sent out any letters in days, and I feel


rather discouraged.

Monday, August 22, 1977

3 PM. It’s a dark August Vermont day. I’m


alone in the house now, sitting in the parlor.
The remains of a fire are crackling and a rare
car has just passed by the dirt road in front of
the house. I can hear birds singly sharply.

Charles estimated that this house and the


property around it would be worth from
$20,000 to $30,000 on the open market. It’s
strange for me to be here, lying on this sofa,
the breeze from the open door startling my leg.
I feel peaceful.

This week at Bread Loaf has been good for me,


I think. Perhaps I haven’t exploited the
Conference staff and my position as a Scholar.
I have barely spoken to John Gardner or
Stanley Elkin (who’s dying of multiple sclerosis
like the character in his last novel) or Mark
Strand or Charles Simic (who told me he just
got a card from Jon Baumbach in England).

And my work hasn’t really gotten criticized by


anyone. But still, I’ve taken advantage of other
things that Bread Loaf has to offer.

The multiplicity of writers, good and bad,


published and unpublished, young and old,
male and female, has made me realize that I’m
certainly not alone. That is both a relief and a
discomfort.

The relief comes from knowing all these


wonderful, sensitive people who are struggling,
as I am, to express themselves and to perfect
their craft. But the fact that my quest is
shared by many others also makes me feel less
unique, and invariably, less special.
My voice is my own, true, but there are so
many here who are just as good or better than
I am that I despair of ever gaining recognition
for my writing.

So what if I’ve published thirty stories in


literary magazines? Tim O’Brien published a
novel when he was younger than I am, and the
novel was well-reviewed and made money and
is taught.

Still, who is Tim O’Brien? I just passed him


walking back here on a narrow trail in the
woods. He was sitting on plank over a stream
with that witty divorced teacher from
Plymouth.

Tim O’Brien isn’t great; even John Gardner isn’t


a great writer. (Tim told me he shares that
view about John.) But I can’t believe that a
writer has to be great or he’s a failure. If I end
up believing that, I will end up frustrated and
bitter.

I will settle for little successes and try to be the


best writer of whatever it is that I write that I
am capable of being. Probably some people’s
dreams of literary stardom have been
shattered here; I heard that Gardner told some
people to just give up writing.

I never expected to be a superstar, though I’ve


wished for it, and while it troubled me an hour
ago when the agent Richard Marek told his
audience that short story collections are
impossible to sell, it was no surprise to me, not
even when he said that the stories “must have
appeared in The New Yorker, Harpers and
Playboy and not in places like the Transatlantic
Review.” Ha, that’s my most prestigious
publication.

Hilma Wolitzer’s lecture was quite useful to


me. She started “late,” at 35, and she’s lived a
very quiet and ordinary middle-class Jewish life
in Brooklyn and Long Island, a life that must be
similar to the sedate life I’ve led.

But she said one did not have to experience


the unusual to write about it; we are all unique
and some of us have great imaginations. The
important thing, she said, is to be the kind of
person whom nothing gets by, on whom
nothing is lost.

Maxine Kumin lectured on workshops and


exercises in poetry – that was useful to me,
too, I think.

I had lunch after Kumin’s lecture (I couldn’t


touch the chipped beef because the look of it
was repulsive) and then went to hear editor
and independent publisher Richard Marek.

I feel like I’m storing up psychic energy here


that will be released in the stories I write when
I get back to Brooklyn and resume my routines.

The summer is almost over; indeed, with my


crew-neck sweater and my sweatshirt, I
already feel that it’s fall. I think it’s been a
good summer – the best one ever, perhaps – in
spite of myself.

Life has a way of forcing you to grow up.

Monday, August 23, 1976

5 PM. I don’t quite understand what’s going on


in my life, and I feel at a loss to cope with the
changes. It’s obvious something is up with the
Farber job. I guess he’s decided to fire me, but
I wonder why he hasn’t told me of his decision
and why I haven’t received the money owed to
me.

I shall call him tomorrow night definitely –


unless I hear from him sooner. I’d really prefer
not to work tomorrow anyway, as June called
again last night and said she’d pay me $15 if I
do a story on the Fiction Collective.

Tomorrow I have to write it and get photos she


can use in the paper. It shouldn’t be too hard
to write the article, and I do need the money
badly.

Right now, in terms of money, I’m basically


back to where I started four weeks ago. I have
$125 in the bank now; these past few weeks
I’ve been spending eight or nine dollars a day
and this has got to stop.

For one thing, I’ve got to limit dining out. I


know I treasure the times when I can go to a
restaurant and be alone, but I’ve got to
sacrifice that so I can make my money go
further.

Maybe I’ll stop buying the newspaper every


day and cut down on buying books. I’ve got to
reserve most of my money for my work:
xeroxing stories, buying paper and supplies
and postage stamps.

And movies over three dollars are out. If I can


hold myself to a tight budget, I may be able to
make it until. . . until whatever happens,
happens.

It destroys me inside every week to see Marc’s


$75 unemployment check arrive. What I could
do on $75! I could live like a king. And Marc
does nothing and makes even more money by
drug dealing. He flashes around $20 bills like
crazy.

And he bitches to Jonny for my asking him for


five dollars for food shopping last week, saying
I’m “cheap.” When you work for an hour and
you know you’re going to paid only three
dollars for it, you tend to get cheap.

Five years ago I had $40 a week and I didn’t


know where to spend it all. Now I’m sorry that
Dad was so generous with my allowance then;
it’s made it that much harder to adjust to the
way I have to live now.

I went for a job interview at Redbook today – as


a full-time clerk/typist at $130 a week – but I
failed the typing test, doing only 43 words a
minute with ten mistakes.

I feel ashamed to have failed, even though I


probably wouldn’t have been suited to the job
at all if typing was all that was involved.
Failure is a difficult thing to accept in oneself,
to say “I have failed” and not try to water the
phrase down.

Maybe I did fail the typing test, but that proved


only one thing: that I cannot type as well as
Redbook wants their employees to type. It is
no reflection on me as a person. (Saying that
seems so obvious. Then why can’t I trust it?)

Gary phoned last night. He wanted to make


sure I wasn’t hurt about his not having asked
me to be his attendant: “But with three
brothers-in-law and a cousin who can afford the
tuxedo rental. . .“ he started, and I interrupted
him:

“Gary, you know me, I’m thrilled just to be a


guest at your wedding. I don’t care about
ceremony.”

Of course I’m relieved not to be a part of the


thing. (Is that totally true? Would I have liked
to be asked, anyway?) I’m glad I can wear my
suit again. (Yes, on the whole I am very glad
not to be an usher.)

Bill Hudson of Dogsoldier wrote me that “The


Unknown” will definitely appear in his sixth
issue, sometime after the first of next year;
that’s something to be grateful for.

I was perhaps more productive this past week


than ever before, yet today I feel totally bereft
of creativity and writing talent. Why am I so
hard on myself?

Things are so up in the air now, and I don’t


have the familiar to hold onto anymore, not
Brooklyn College or my family or my home or
Ronna or Gary or a teaching job.

And still, after eight years, I still fear another


breakdown.

Wednesday, August 24, 1977

5 PM. Today it’s been raining and bone-


chillingly cold, more like the end of November
than the end of August. I really would like to
get on a bus to New York tomorrow. I’m bored
by now, and after today I feel I’ve
accomplished everything I wanted to at Bread
Loaf.

Yesterday afternoon I fell asleep on the couch


downstairs and later Charles came in and we
bullshitted for a while. He says he’d like to
work on a fashion magazine and he told me
that the trouble with Vietnam was that we
didn’t go in there to win.
I imagine a lot of young people are pretty
conservative today. In 1969, when I was
subject to the draft and marching against the
war, guys like Charles and Kevin were only 11
or 12, and there’s a big difference between us.
I don’t think they perceive me as an older
person, though they kid me about it.

Actually, I’m at a peculiar age. I don’t quite


have all the trappings of adulthood around me,
but I’m far from being a college kid. If I teach
again this fall – I hope to – doubtless I’ll find
that my students have gotten still younger
than they were last year and the year before.
But white, upper-middle-class kids like Charles
and Kevin are pretty different from my
students at LIU.

Dinner last night was filet of sole, and I didn’t


touch it. I probably would have lost weight
here, but to compensate for all the poor meals,
I’ve been loading up on sugars and starches.

I sat outside the Inn with Kristy Rogoff last


night; we showed each other the contents of
our wallets. Kristy is sweet, but she seems
younger than she actually is.

Later, I met some old lady from Brooklyn, a


retired high school teacher who was once a
short story writer – she got honorable mention
in a ‘40s Story Magazine contest that Norman
Mailer won – and now is working on her poetry,
which is probably bad.
She gave me the password “Sholem Aleichem,”
and when I responded warmly, she said, “A
landsman, eh?” I’m almost ashamed to say
how pleased I was to meet another Brooklyn
Jew. It shouldn’t be that Jews are sort of a
secret club with its own password and special
handshake like the Phi Beta Kappa one Prof.
Fife taught me, but I like the sound of Yiddish.

And Hilma Wolitzer’s reading – from her novel


about middle-class New York Jews – also made
me feel good. Hearing about lifestyles and
characters familiar to me got me thinking
about my parents and grandparents and
friends and Brooklyn stuff.

We went to the Barn afterwards, to an Elvis


Memorial Pre-‘60s Dance, but I was a little too
tired to get into it, though I did get pleasure
out of watching Alice and David rock-‘n’-roll
together.

After French toast this morning, I went to John


Irving’s workshop, which was fairly interesting,
and then to Geoffrey Wolff’s, a nonfiction one,
which also was pretty good. Richard Marek, the
literary agent, was leaving for New York, and I
had to restrain myself from shouting “Take me
with you!” as he got in his car.

Miriam from Texas and I sat outside the Inn


and sang, “I wanna go home” and played with
Dudley, a cute little boy who assured me that I
would not melt in the rain. After lunch, I went
back to the Barn with Marie Flagg, another
fiction writer, and Leslea Newman, who’s really
cool.

So far there’s been only one nervous


breakdown here, but he came back and is now
rooming with the staff psychologist. This
afternoon Tim O’Brien read, as did two other
Fellows, and I caught a lift back in Greg’s Jeep.

I’m definitely going to leave tomorrow. There’s


nothing more for me to do here. I’ve gotten
way more than my $135 worth and I’ve
enjoyed it, but enough’s enough.

Saturday, August 25, 1979

3 PM. I’m feeling less depressed today. By a


freak of nature, we actually had some sun for a
few hours on a Saturday, so I sat out for an
hour.

My throat feels better, and I slept well, except


when I got up in the middle of the night and
felt like Anthony Newley singing, “What kind of
fool am I / Who never fell in love?”

The other night I wrote a letter to Bill-Dale after


reading his first letter in my diary from last
year. He surprised me by writing back.

He and Chuck (who got thrown out of his own


parents’ house) were both also thrown out of
Bill-Dale’s parents’ house. I guess they’re
lovers and it was too much for the parents to
handle.

Bill-Dale is living, incongruously, at a friend’s


fraternity house at Rutgers until the semester
starts, and Chuck is living in a nearby dorm for
international exchange students.

Anyway, Bill-Dale enclosed a New Jersey


Monthly magazine article about himself and
send he wants Wes to send him a copy of my
book. (He says Wes “sounds cool.”)

Bill-Dale wants me to come to visit him, but his


timing is lousy. He starts school next week,
and I’ll be busy starting this week. He writes,
“You are by far the most interesting person I
have ever encountered.”

Anyway, I see now that a guy who was so


hesitant to have sex with me is having a
romantic love affair (getting thrown out of
parents’ houses must make it seem that much
more romantic) – while I remain unloving and
unloved.

But what the hell, right? I’ll find someone


eventually.

Of course I’m seeing Ronna tonight and that


also triggers memories – and she’s got a lover
now, too. And I don’t.

But I have a full life, more invitations than I can


handle, and after all, both Bill-Dale and Ronna
have to be at least somewhat interested in me
as a person.

Dad’s been away for nearly two weeks and he


seems to be doing fairly well in Florida working
for Ivan’s family. I miss Dad, of course, but I
have not really noticed his absence because
I’ve been so busy and because so much else in
my life remains the same.

On some level, I’ve been pretending that Dad’s


dead – not because I wish he were, but to see if
I could adjust to that tragedy. But of course
it’s not the same because even though Dad
isn’t here anymore, I know I could always see
him if I wanted to.

Dad may be coming up next week anyway, to


see about taking on another line as a
salesman; then Mom will go down to Florida
with him for a while.

I’ve got to get moving in my search for an


apartment. It would be so much easier if I
knew where I’d be working and how much
money I’ll have coming in.

Mom bought me a digital alarm clock today.


I’m going to have to adjust to getting up at
6:30 AM to get to Manhattan on time. Since
I’ve been sleeping as late as I’ve wanted to for
the past six months, waking up early may
prove difficult. At least I won’t have to
compete with anyone for the bathroom at that
hour.
I spoke with Alice, who’s excited about the
house on Capitol Hill that she and her brother
are planning to buy as a shrewd investment.
Alice will eventually be so wealthy she won’t
know what to do with all her money.

I got an odd letter from Cosmo editor Myra


Appleton. I’d asked her to review my book,
and she wrote back, saying she would be
happy to look at any article I wrote on
speculation.

I wrote to Rita Mae Brown and Terence Winch,


both of whom review books for the Washington
Post; perhaps they would be interested in
seeing Hitler. I got a strange card from Opal
Nations in Italy and some nice words from
Thomas Michael Fisher of Star-Web Paper.

I wish there was some word from Avis as to


when she’s planning to arrive in New York.

This looks as if it’s going to be a busy and


exciting week. Maude will be coming back
after three weeks’ vacation and hopefully our
regular mailman will return from vacation, too.
Odd how one gets accustomed to routines.

Saturday, August 26, 1978


6 PM. Last night I felt restless even though I
got over the bad feelings I had yesterday. But I
somehow felt a bit unanchored as I walked
along the boardwalk in Rockaway, up Beach
126th Street and past Mason’s house.

There was a fog and the Ambrose Lighthouse


was flashing. It was chilly enough that I had to
zip up my sweatshirt. The sand looked so new
and there was so much of it (see, that’s what
the Army Corps of Engineers can do for you);
somehow it seemed like a moonscape under
the new pinkish street lights.

The boardwalk and the benches were all new


as well, and they smelled – well, they smelled
like this house smelled the first night Marc and
I slept in it twenty years ago, just about this
time of year in 1958.

On CBS there was a special last night: 1968.


They put it on especially for the tenth
anniversary of what they called the most
decisive (and divisive) event of that year, the
Chicago “police riot” during the Democratic
Convention.

I cried at the old footage as I’d cried when I


first saw the scenes of the streets of Chicago in
1968. That’s when my breakdown really took
hold. Dr. Stein came over and prescribed
Librium, bed rest and hot baths.

Last night, watching the TV show, I got a new


perspective on my feelings at that time. I was
young and against the war and of course I
identified with the protesters who were being
clubbed so brutally.

But I was also very confused and guilty and


very afraid of the world. Didn’t the pictures of
Chicago tell me, that neurotic 17-year-old, that
the world was a horrible place?

Now that I look back, I see that Chicago in


August ’68 had a lot to do with my not leaving
the house for nearly a year; it reinforced my
agoraphobic feelings.

But it is late August 1978 now after all, and this


morning, when the doorbell rang, and I was
awakened from a dream about getting
rejections, I knew that downstairs a mailman
had my little book, Disjointed Fictions.

I went to the door half-naked and nearly signed


the wrong form. It was half an hour before I
opened it because I was scared, but finally, in
the presence of my parents, I did finally open
the package. And I was very pleased and still
am at this moment.

It’s my book, Disjointed Fictions: from the


transfer type that made the cover to the typing
of each letter of the stories. I was the one who
selected the stories, placed them in the order I
wanted, wrote my biography on the back
(though George, bless him, had it typeset
really nicely).

George selected a nice red cover and a grey


undercover and put a design, a small box
containing a hand with fingers crossed
(symbolic of disjointed and hoping for the
best), on the front – that set off the otherwise
dull lettering in the title and my name.

Mom and Dad liked the description – “To my


parents, Mr. and Mrs. Grayson” – though they
didn’t quite get the joke (and I see where it’s a
little hostile).

My name on the spine was written facing up


rather than down, but that’s a minor point. I
didn’t have any typos as far as I can see, and
I’m proud of that.

I read the stories in the book and I am proud of


them, too. I actually enjoyed every story; if I
had just stumbled upon this book, I would have
said, “I wish I could write like this.”

So I am very proud. I don’t have anything to


apologize for.

Also today, I welcomed Grandma Ethel home


from the hospital, spoke to Ronna and Alice
and Gary, watched the new Pope (a fairly
unknown Italian cardinal, now Pope John Paul
I), felt a cold coming on, and smiled a lot more
than usual.

Friday, August 27, 1976

5 PM. A terribly gloomy day. They say the air


quality is unhealthy, and I feel it. My sinuses
throb; I sleep leadenly. I awoke this morning
filled with charley horse in my neck, my back,
my shoulders – the result of yesterday’s heavy
lifting.

All night I had erections that made me so


uncomfortable that finally I had to sleep
without my briefs. What I hate most is when I
have a rock-hard erection and have to go to
the bathroom very badly at the same time:

I stand over the toilet, waiting for gravity to do


its work, but more often than not, after several
minutes I still point to a spot on the ceiling and
I have to urinate using really hard hand
pressure on my cock to keep from splattering
all over the bathroom.

I don’t know why I’m writing about this.

Last evening I wrote a short and probably very


poor story. I have very little inspiration these
days, but it doesn’t bother me. Yet there are
times when I think I am not living if I am not
writing.

I spoke to Mandy last night when I called Mike’s


house and he was in the shower. Mandy is
getting used to her new, better-paying job in a
small office, but she says that she thinks life
was not meant to be lived traveling on the
subways each day to work in Manhattan.

Everyone on the train looks so depressed in the


morning, Mandy said, “But what can you do?
The money has to come from somewhere.”
She and Mike have taken a place for their
wedding – Temple Sholom, in Mill Basin – a
year from tomorrow. Originally they had
planned to wait until Mike has a job, but they
realized that could be quite a while and that
they could make do on Mandy’s salary if need
be.

The job situation today is very depressing.


Mandy said she and Mike are happy that Mikey
is finally doing what he always wanted to do
and is starting law school, but she said Stevie
Cohn graduated from law school in Philadelphia
last year and the only job he could get was
part-time, a few hours a week at $5 an hour at
a local law firm.

Mandy said that Mikey told her and Mike that


he’s been going back and forth between his
apartment on West 23rd and the beach, and
that Larry’s been looking for his own
apartment.

When I told her I’d bought them an


engagement present, Mandy yelled at me –
typical of her. She and Mike are so
unpretentious and comfortable. One hesitates
to predict this couple or that one will be one of
the few to make a marriage work, so I won’t. . .

This morning I awoke with great aches and


pains, as I said, but after a shower-massage I
felt better. I went to the New York Public
Library on 42nd Street, checked out their
collection of literary magazines, looked at an
exhibit of early American manuscripts and
literary curios, and took out two more volumes
of Anaïs Nin’s diaries, which I’m really getting
into.

This afternoon I went to visit Grandma Ethel,


who looks drawn and who has lost weight.
Grandpa Herb called the doctor while I was
there, and the lab tests turned out well.
Grandma Ethel’s cholesterol is low, the x-rays
clear, and there’s no trace of diabetes.

But the angina is very painful, a steel vise of


pain in her chest, her shoulders, even her jaw.
The nitroglycerin tablets relieve the pain, but
they give her headaches. We watched Dinah
Shore and then I left for home to join my
parents for dinner at the Floridian.

It’s really depressing to watch the decline of


our favorite neighborhood restaurant. Tonight
it was emptier than ever, and everyone there
seems to be in a state of despair. Four years
ago we would have had to stand in line for
twenty minutes before getting a table, but now
all the competition has taken their customers
away.

Sunday, August 28, 1977

8 PM. It was good to see Avis and Helmut


yesterday. They had both just bought jeans
and boots. We went uptown to Teresa’s and on
the way they told me about their trip.
Ellen and David have moved to this terrific
farmhouse outside Charlottesville, on a very
quiet dirt road. Avis and Helmut arrived in the
middle of a heat wave and there was a tornado
that tore down a 100-year-old tree, knocked
out the electricity, and moved an iron in their
room about ten feet.

Then the four of them went to the Outer Banks


of North Carolina, where there was nothing to
do but lie in the sun. All of them got terribly
sunburned and they were grateful that it rained
on the third day.

But Avis said she had a nice visit with her


sister, and she repeated Ellen’s invitation for
me to come down and stay with them. I
thought I might make the visit to Virginia with
Elihu, but Avis said Ellen thinks Elihu is such a
night person, he might be very bored there,
especially with no TV.

Elihu had a pretty hard time visiting the


McAllisters when they were living in Middlebury
(hard for me to understand after being there; I
think it’s wonderful), so Ellen and David had to
spend all their time trying to entertain him.

Teresa wasn’t in when we arrived, but a note


on the door told us to ring next door. Wanda,
the Haitian pianist who teaches at Rutgers, told
us that Teresa and Jane, her old roommate
from Palo Alto, had just gone to the store for
some groceries. Avis, Helmut and I sat in
Wanda’s living room as she graciously
entertained us and told funny stories about
faculty meetings.

Teresa and Jane finally got back from the store,


and we had cheese and crackers and drinks.
Teresa’s grandfather finally died a couple of
weeks ago and she had to go visit her
grandmother later that evening.

Grandpa Virgil died at home and it was pretty


awful. Teresa said he looked like a monster
the last few days. But dying was all he wanted
to do; at 87, he had just tired of life.

Don wasn’t around last night, for some reason.


Jane, it turns out, works with him in the Times
Book Division, selling video cassettes to
teachers – so that’s how Teresa met Don.

Jane is very sexy in a big-boned, freckled


California way; she said she’d send me some
workbooks on teaching basic writing skills that
might be valuable to me.

While I was chatting with Jane and Helmut, I


could hear Teresa in the background telling
Avis about her problems with Don. His wife
isn’t making it easy for him to get a divorce,
and if she ever finds out about Teresa, that will
only make things worse.

Don’s daughters want to visit him in the city,


so he’s either got to “borrow” a friend’s
apartment or else he and Teresa might get a
bigger, three-bedroom place. (Teresa would
stay in Williamsburg with her parents when
Don’s daughters come visit.)

But I think Teresa really likes her building.


People kept dropping in: Lance from next door,
to borrow a pot (his roommate – lover? – Ari
was cooking dinner); and Connie from
downstairs came by to check out Teresa’s new
stereo.

Teresa said she’d tried to call me while I was in


Vermont and Jonny just said, “Oh, he’s gone.”

Avis and Helmut said goodbye to Teresa, and


she returned my camera, and the three of us
went downtown and had dinner (my idea, their
treat) at 125 Prince Street in Soho.

Helmut has really gotten himself hooked on TV


and I told him I’m going to test him on
commercial jingles. They gave me Libby’s tent
and camping equipment, which I put in my
trunk so I can return it to Libby’s house when
I’m in the Slope this week.

Helmut was anxious to take a ride on the


Staten Island ferry, so we put the car on it. I
hate the ferry, but it really wasn’t so bad. I
thought I might have an anxiety attack, but I
didn’t even though I tried to induce one. You
really don’t feel any motion on the ferry at all.

We drove back over the Verrazano and I


dropped them off at Avis’s parents’ apartment
in Sheepshead Bay. Back at home, I read the
Sunday Times and finally fell asleep.
Helmut’s flight, which was supposed to leave
tonight, was delayed until tomorrow morning
by the London air traffic controllers’ strike.

Avis phoned early this evening and we went to


dinner at the Arch. She wanted to hear all
about Bread Loaf and I told her everything; it’s
fun to be able to tell someone about my trip for
a change.

While we were waiting for a table, I noticed


Ronna’s sister in the restaurant lobby. I went
over to kiss her hello, and I told her how
beautiful she looked. She did – she’s tanned
and she’s lost weight; Sue’s face was always
pretty.

She told me that they’ve moved, that she’s


graduating BC in January as a Health Science
major, that she had a summer job at the city
Health Department. Ronna, Sue said, was at
Susan’s house with Susan and Evan, and Mrs. C
and her boyfriend went with Billy to Montauk
on vacation.

Of course, I didn’t mention Ronna to her sister;


instead, I told Sue about Vermont, and when
the hostess called “Grayson” to say that our
table was waiting, I just said, “Give my regards
at home.”

Over dinner, Alice told me about her


nightmarish weekend in Washington. That guy
she corresponded with, Bill Hartford, has
something wrong with him. His face, Alice
said, was actually so grotesque-looking that
she couldn’t eat in his presence.

He must look very gruesome – I can’t imagine


it – but Alice said his face gave her nightmares.
Alice tried to be her natural irascible self (if she
was kindly, Bill would have been even more
hurt) and let him down as gently as possible.

“It’s not a question of his being unattractive,”


Alice said. “To me, he was repulsive.”

Good news, though: Doubleday is definitely


interested in doing Alice’s book.

Sunday, August 29, 1976

7 PM. It strikes me that I do not know how to


proceed with my life. It is the end of August,
the end of the summer. Wednesday is
September and where am I?

I have a whole week in front of me and


absolutely no structure to it at all. I am not
going to school, I am not working, I am not
traveling, I am not involved with anyone.

I write – but that’s not enough for me. Maybe if


my family life were fixed, I could begin to make
decisions. But my parents and brothers are, if
anything, more up in the air than I am on.

And we’re running through money with little


appreciable income. If I were sure Dad and
Mom were moving to Florida by a fixed date, I
would make plans. What plans, I don’t know.

For the first time in my life – with the exception


of 1968, when I had my breakdown – I find
myself facing a September without classes and
books and learning.

This is preposterous, I want to say. But that


does no good, nor does my envy of Ronna
beginning graduate school or Mikey beginning
law school.

Oh, I’m relatively certain I’m not going to crack


up; no doubt I’ll fall into something. For one
thing, the lack of money makes doing
something a necessity. But I’ve never lived life
like that: “falling into things.”

Thank the Lord I have my fiction and this diary


to preserve my sanity. Oh, how does one go
about preparing oneself to be a cult figure? I
want to be famous and rich and have admirers
and produce good work and be a part of the
world stage.

I want to play a role in literature, in politics, in


society. Now I feel cut off from the world. It’s
as though I’m trying to get across my message
(what Sam Levenson spoke about at
commencement) and there’s nobody there to
hear it.

I’m not making contract with anyone. Today I


had lunch at the Burger King in Hewlett (the
one I mentioned in “Roman Buildings”) and
behind me on line were a beautiful blond
couple about 17.

They were so cute and so fresh-faced, so


boyish and girlish and playful that I cherished
the moment that I shared a bemused smile
with them over somebody making a scene in
the restaurant.

I wanted to be them, to be a part of things and


17 again, to feel the first pangs of living as an
adult. Now, at 25, I’m already old.

I’m a baby still, emotionally, that’s true – but


I’m a world-weary, cynical, old-maidish,
avuncular baby. How I’d love to be innocent
again. Why, I’d even love feeling that stifling
adolescent guilt again!

But I fear I’m growing repetitious here, and I


can’t stand that. I pleased myself (but not
enough – it’s never enough) by writing a story
yesterday, “The Domino Theory,” the most
Kafkaesque of my stories.

Last night Alice and I went to the movies, to


see The Omen, which bored me a little and
frightened me not at all. Before we left, Alice
had me call up the home for the blind where
Jim works and pretend I was a person with a
blind uncle and find out the address of the
place.

I did so, mostly because I love impersonating


people over the phone. Alice wants to “prove
her love” (no, strike love – she’s adamant that
she does not love Jim, she just can’t get him
out of her mind) by showing up at Jim’s place
of work.

I think I convinced Alice that in the long run it


would only be self-destructive, but she’s such a
baby about her crushes that I expect her to go
there during the week.

Unlike me, who goes away at the slightest hint


of rejection, Alice has no idea when to take no
for an answer.

I was at the beach for a bit today with Mikey


and his mother; they’re both getting settled in
at their new apartments. Now that he’s no
longer working, Mikey has little to do but await
the start of law school next week.

He said Mason is home, but he didn’t speak to


him. I wonder how Mason is keeping himself
together these days.

Wednesday, August 30, 1978

10 PM. Life seems good tonight. I feel very


alive.
This evening I taught my last class at LIU,
finishing up Seize the Day and delivering an
impromptu lecture on Post-War American
Fiction And Where It Is Going – probably
pompous, but I enjoyed myself.

Then I drove into the Village to talk to Laura at


the bookstore. She just came back from her
vacation and looks tanned and rested.

Jon Baumbach is back in Brooklyn, and when


Laura called him up, he said, “Did you hear
what Grayson did?” (So I’m Grayson now.)
Jerry Klinkowitz felt he had to tell Jon about the
story I wrote about him.

Jon was outraged, but after a while, he calmed


down and decided he’d had pretty good luck
lately, what with the Guggenheim, and
eventually he rather liked the idea of being a
character in a story.

Laura thinks Klinkowitz enjoyed turning the


knife a little; he must dislike Jon a bit, or why
would he have accepted the story in the first
place? Anyway, I wrote it, but Jerry is the one
who’s publishing it.

Laura said Peter Spielberg looked like he’d


been going through a depression when she
visited him at Wellfleet. But he has his writing
routine, and he’s happy that Twiddledum
Twaddledum just found an English publisher.

Peter is a bit pissed that Baumbach got this


Sukenick protégé from Colorado to take over
the first-year MFA program class; I keep up on
these things, but I’ve never heard of the guy.
He may be a great teacher, but I’m probably
just as qualified.

Laura said she doesn’t want to teach


composition at Brooklyn, but Stanley Hoffman
has first dibs on the creative writing class she
wants.

I was in Boylan Hall on Monday and noticed


that two evening writing courses have no
instructor, so I wrote to Neil Schaeffer, the SGS
deputy chair, about my teaching them.

Of course my name is mud at the BC English


Department, but what do I care? I’ve got to
live up to my reputation as a man with
chutzpah.

Harvey recently called Laura because he


thought he was dying of leukemia; it turned
out, as he discovered in the emergency room
of Methodist Hospital, that it was only a virus.

Laura told me to tell George to send six copies


of Disjointed Fictions to the store. I had called
George last night; he was groggy from too
much Contac taken for his bad hay fever.

George told me he’d sent me a letter about the


book; he’s pleased with some parts of it and
displeased with others. Neither of us feel
comfortable discussing “business” over the
phone, so we stuck to small talk.
I told him that if he takes a table at the New
York Book Fair next month, I’ll man it (person
it?). So much for literary gossip, although at
the bookstore I did run into Prof. Jones from
Philosophy (I have a slight crush on him; he’s
30, blond, tanned, well-built, very cute and
gay) and Lynne Rosen, whom I hadn’t seen in
years.

She’s still working for Social Security and isn’t


sure what she wants to do with her life –
maybe (what else?) “go back to school” She
saw the thing on Page Six in the Post and knew
I’d been with the Fiction Collective at one time.

She still sees Renee, who’s working at


Downstate and has been living with some guy
for years now. What surprises me is that
people I don’t really know seem to notice me.
In a way, a small way, I’m already something of
a public person.

But who cares what people say about me? It’s


only a few people who count. One of them, Dr.
Abraham Lipton, sent me a reply to the
Courier-Life article and letter I sent him. My
old psychiatrist said he would be “honored” if I
would visit him to chat for a while.

Last night I stayed up till 4 AM and wrote a


soap opera parody, which I sent off to TV
Guide.
Friday, August 31, 1979

2 PM on the last day of August and the start of


the Labor Day weekend. My head is very
heavy; it must be the humidity affecting my
sinuses.

Yesterday afternoon I drove out to Rockaway


and went to the library there. The new
Publishers Weekly had the fall announcements.
Taplinger had a full-page ad, and Ivy Strick’s
The Home Makers got a fairly good review.

It’s still pretty sad that hardcover books have


such a short life span. Crad Kilodney
encourages me to write an article about my
experiences with commercial book publishing
and my own attempts at promotion.

I’ll get around to it eventually, maybe in a


month or so when I’m sure it’s really all over. I
still have hopes that People will come out with
a review, but if it’s not this week, then my
hopes will fade considerably. Today I went into
Waldenbooks and saw that all five copies are
still unsold.

Enough about my writing career for now. Why


don’t I just resolve to forget about it for the
rest of the weekend and concentrate on other
aspects of life?

After dinner at McDonald’s yesterday, I visited


Grandma Ethel and Grandpa Herb. Grandpa
has been having trouble sleeping.
“I think a lot about D-E-A-T-H,” he said. “I spell
it so your Grandma won’t know what I’m
talking about.”

Grandpa Herb is 75 now, and he’s going to die


within the next few years, so I guess it’s
natural to have that fear. He says he can’t
explain it to me because I’m too young.

And I am. For all my brave talk, I can’t imagine


what it’s like to be old and approaching death.
Grandpa Herb has seen his much younger
brother die and now his older brother is
completely senile and helpless.

Grandma Ethel says Aunt Arlyne’s mother


Hannah is also going senile; she forgets and
calls Arlyne or her sisters three times a day.

When Grandma went out for her nightly game


of canasta, where she can’t lose or win more
than thirty cents a game, I stayed to watch TV
with Grandpa.

He gave me a 1979 proof set of coins for Marc,


and after an hour I left for Brooklyn. It was a
gorgeous drive home from the beach.

I called Avis and spoke to her father, who said


that she mailed her passport to Frankfurt so
she could go to Israel, but now she may not
have gotten it back in the mail. I’m a bit
worried about Avis.
After marking half of my Visual Arts class’s
papers, I realized that they don’t write much
better than my remedial students at LIU or
Kingsborough. There are comma splices,
fragments, run-ons, awful spelling, no
apostrophes on possessives, poor transitions,
weak sentence structure, and an absence of
specifics.

I’m going to have to teach grammar; they’ll


complain, but they need the discipline.

This morning I got our early and did errands,


getting money at the bank, decongestant at
the drugstore, gas at the gas station, and
stationery supplies.

Next week I’m going to begin searching in


earnest for apartments. Hopefully, I will hear
from one of the CUNY colleges about some
additional courses. I didn’t get the job at
NYCCC, thank goodness.

Mom is very glad that Dad will be coming home


tonight, as she’s missed him terribly. Next
week she and Jonny flying back to Miami with
Dad to stay with him for a while.

Mom again brought up the idea of my taking an


apartment with Marc, but I told her I didn’t
want to have to put up with drugs, Deanna’s
constant presence, loud music, and Marc’s
creepier friends. I love Marc, but our lifestyles
are irreconcilably different. I want privacy,
anyway.
I’m looking forward to my session with Dr.
Pasquale tonight. Afterwards I may drop by
Alice’s, where some of Peter’s friends are
gathering to watch him as an imposter on To
Tell the Truth.

Thursday, September 1, 1977

9 PM. It’s September already.

Coming up is Labor Day weekend, then Jonny


goes back to school (I think he’ll be grateful for
it). The next week is Rosh Hashona, and I
should find out if I’ll be teaching this term. And
then it will be autumn.

This summer has been a remarkable one. Not


everything that happened was good, but I feel
I’ve grown. Grandpa Nat’s illness has taken a
terrible toll on all of us, and the crisis is far
from over, but I could accept it – indeed, at this
point I’d almost welcome it – if he died.

Grandpa Herb told me something that Dad has


been unwilling to: Grandpa Nat’s nursing home
is costing Dad a great deal of money.

Grandma Sylvia is still unwilling to leave


Florida. Grandpa Herb says she’s wrong if she
thinks that when her brothers Daniel and
Bernard come down in a few months, they’ll be
at her beck and call.
“They have their own lives,” said Grandpa
Herb, and he knows the brothers all pretty well
from when they were kids and lived next door
to each other.

Grandpa Nat doesn’t really know what’s going


on anymore, and I can’t help thinking how
simpler things would have been had he died.
But back in July, I prayed for him not to die.

I think I’d like to see him again, although I


know it would scare me and though he
probably wouldn’t know me. It might be best
just to remember him as he was when I saw
him last spring.

Grandpa Herb says he’s got a lot of problems


left from Uncle Abe’s death. He’s been running
around to the Transit Authority, to Social
Security, to the Veterans Administration and
other places, trying to see what money there
is. Mitch and Eddie, Grandpa says, are so
negligent.

Mitch is breaking down emotionally, and


Grandma Ethel wants him to see a psychiatrist.
His girlfriend wants to leave him (if you ask me,
that’s probably a blessing, as she’s a stupid,
shallow girl; Abe never liked her, and neither
do my grandparents).

Mitch is not going to school anymore, and he


and Eddie don’t get along at all. Grandpa Herb
feels they need some guidance, but he doesn’t
know from where they can get it. They’re on
welfare now.
Last night Marc took Grandpa Herb and
Grandma Ethel to Oceanside for dinner, and
Marty gave Grandpa Herb Arlyne’s old car, the
’73 Mercury Montego, which has only 12,000
miles on it. (As the owner of a ’73 Mercury, I
say good luck to him.)

Today, after she got back from shopping,


Grandma Ethel made me dinner, and I tried to
repay her by washing the dishes. She said
Wendy had a fantastic time on her cross-
country trip but didn’t grow even a quarter of
an inch. Last night Wendy’s boyfriend, 16,
called; I think he’s a little person, too.

I think I forgot to note in my diary that on


Monday I had my first moped ride, after I got
back from the beach. Marc rented a moped
from the place on the corner and let Deanna,
her brother and me ride it around the block. It
was noisy and I was unsure of myself at first,
but gradually I speeded up and could control it.

Vito called again last night, and I’m glad we’re


getting close again. I liked his remark when I
told him Avis and Helmut left for Europe on
separate flights: “Yeah, well, they probably
don’t want to leave the kids in the lurch.”

Vito won’t take me to a gay bar. He says he


doesn’t want me to have a gay experience, but
I told him I would like to have a relationship
with a guy. I really had this crush on Vincent,
the waiter at Bread Loaf, and now that I know
Libby’s friend Tommy is bisexual, I’d like to get
closer to him.

I’m convinced it will happen, too, sooner or


later. I’m not going to fight my feelings – any
feelings, for that matter – any longer. That’s
one of the things I learned this summer.

I coped so well with Grandpa Nat’s illness and


Uncle Abe’s death and the blackout while Mom
and Dad were away. I learned a lot from Avis
and Helmut’s visit and from my stay at Bread
Loaf.

I’m closer to being a mensch than I ever have


been. I’m beginning to like myself again, to
trust my feelings and my strength. If I haven’t
been as productive this week as I might have
liked, well, that will come eventually, too.

Monday, September 2, 1978

4 PM. Yesterday’s depression was short-lived.


I feel proud that I’m learning to control my
depressions. They aren’t as frequent or as
deep as they used to be.

I’ll never completely eliminate depression from


my life, of course, but I know more now how to
lessen its effects and its duration.

Yesterday I got this book by Dr. Manuel Smith,


Kicking the Fear Habit. He advocates the
counter-phobic behavioral approach that I now
subscribe to. I only wish that ten years ago I
had known about it. But I don’t regret
anything.

My tooth stopped bothering me. I bought a


shirt in Macy’s and ate out, I read, I chatted
with Evie and Jonny on the porch, and I was
very relaxed and about to make a cup of tea
for myself when the phone rang at 9:30 PM last
night.

It was Marc, and immediately I knew something


was wrong. He and Deanna had gone
shopping at Kings Plaza and when they
returned to level 6 in the parking lot, his car
was gone – stolen.

I told him to go down to the security office and


I’d be right over. Dad, when he heard the
news, acted true to form. He raged at
everything anybody said, so much that I
refused to take him with me.

Dad again has this attitude: Why me? “Of all


the hundreds of cars in Kings Plaza, they had to
pick Marc’s,” he moaned. I don’t see that as a
very helpful attitude.

Nor is Dad’s trying to assess blame: “Deanna


and her shopping! It’s her fault!” “The mall’s
security! That lousy place!”

As my lenses were in the Aseptor, I put on my


glasses and drove to the mall. Marc and
Deanna were in the security office and they
were searching all levels for the Camaro.

But the security people were swamped: a


heart-attack victim had to be taken away in an
ambulance, a robber resisted arrest and bit a
guard (whose shirt was splattered with his own
blood), a half-dozen other crises.

I went to a pay phone and called the police;


then I phoned Mikey, who said he’d drive over.
Meanwhile, another girl came in and said that
someone had broken the lock and ignition in
her car, also a blue Camaro.

As it appeared unlikely the police would get


there – they were changing shifts and there
would be a delay – Dad, who’d come over,
drove Marc and Deanna over to the 63rd
Precinct.

Mikey and I followed them there and saw that it


was all reporting bullshit, so we left and drove
around the likely dumping grounds of Gerritsen
Beach and Bergen Beach, spotting nothing.

Perhaps someone had ordered a blue Camaro


and it was stolen for him. Maybe it’s at a
neighborhood chop shop. Anyway, I thanked
Mikey for driving in from Rockaway to help; it
was very nice of him.

At midnight I went to bed. When I was in the


mall earlier yesterday, I left my car door
unlocked, as I always do. But of course no one
would steal my heap of junk.
Marc treats his car royally, shining it, waxing it,
take care of each little scrape – while I just let
my car deteriorate. Maybe I’m not so stupid,
after all, in viewing the car not as a possession
but as a convenience to get me from here to
there.

In a way this proves that there are no real


possessions; we expect we “own” things, but
we don’t – we can’t. Because of this theft, I
feel less smug, and feeling less smug is always
helpful.

(In his letter Bill-Dale said he hated smugness


and loved “whatever its opposite is” – yet he
also said he was “smug about bisexuality being
the ideal state.”)

Marc is depressed, of course; he had a lot of


money and a lot of himself invested in that car.
Let’s hope the police find it.

I spoke to Grandma Sylvia, who was positively


kvelling over Disjointed Fictions; she even
found her name in it. She told me, “I just know
you’re going to be rich and famous. I only wish
Grandpa could read this book.” Her reaction
was the nicest I’ve had.

I found a campaign poster of that BC student


government ninny Bruce Balmer. Below and
above his photo were BRUCE BALMER and FOR
THE DEATH PENALTY. Only in small letters did
it say what he was running for: state senator.
God. And Chester Kravitz is running for
assemblyman.
Monday, September 3, 1979

5 PM on Labor Day. I’m not looking forward to


going back to work tomorrow. I regret the end
of summer. Dr. Pasquale said that when I first
came to him in June, I had been worried about
how I’d fill up my time. It turned out so well
that I learned to love not working.

If I had my druthers, I wouldn’t be teaching at


all this term. Well, maybe that’s not true. I
just don’t like feeling so harried. I’d like to
have just a couple more weeks of summer
without any worries about working.

Last evening was perfect. Mikey came over at


6 PM and we went over to Avis’s parents’ in
Sheepshead Bay to pick her up. Then we had a
good Italian dinner at Collaro’s on MacDonald
Avenue.

I became slightly silly afterwards as Mikey


drove us into Manhattan. We were all
collapsed in laughter as we went over the
bumps on East Houston Street.

I called up Alice, who told us we could come


up; Peter had gone to Philadelphia to review a
show and wouldn’t be back for several hours.

Alice showed us a copy of her book, Roller


Fever, which doesn’t look nearly as bad as
Alice had said it did. The paper is cheap, but
I’d be proud of it if I were Alice. It’s the
selection of Scholastic Book Club this month
and they expect it will sell 300,000 copies.

Avis had brought $35 worth of grass she’d


bought from Marc (I was the delivery boy) and
Alice brought out her rolling paper; she’s
begun to smoke since Peter moved in.

Mikey abstained, as usual, but Avis, Alice and I


got fairly stoned. When we’d come in, Alice
had been working on an article idea about
different celebrities who came from Brooklyn,
so we spent time trying to think up names.

Avis and Alice are such opposites: Avis, the last


of the flower children, moving to Israel to try to
“find herself,” a committed socialist and very
Europeanized after all her years in Germany;
Alice, the quintessential tough New Yorker of
the ‘70s, hard-driving, interested in getting
ahead, getting rich and getting famous.

I don’t think they can understand each other,


and yet they’re both good friends to me. Avis
disapproves of much of our lifestyles: she
makes fun of Brooklyn, American TV (what else
can you do with it but make of fun of it, I
guess), and “dressing up.”

She said she’ll always live in the late ‘60s and


early ‘70s. I like having Avis shake up some of
my values; we have spirited arguments about
politics, but I love a good argument.
I think Alice thinks Avis is pretentious, but
when we’re stoned, we all get on well as we did
last night.

Mikey? Mikey is always there, it seems, but


never noticed – until you realize he’s gone
away. He’s cynical – in college his byword was
“It sucks” – but more honest than anyone and
about as down-to-earth and decent a person as
you can find living on the island of Manhattan.

I love the view from Alice’s window, especially


the Empire State Building (the lights were all
white last night). I love being in the city at
night in summer; even Avis admitted it felt
magical.

Alice told me she went to see Sean Wilentz at


the bookstore. He’s got a job as Assistant
Professor of History at Princeton and is taking
his dissertation to publishers.

Sean said they’ll carry Alice’s book, and when


Alice asked him about my book, he said,
“We’re sold out on Disjointed Fictions.” Alice
said no, she meant the hardcover Hitler; Sean
had never heard of it and he asked his father
to carry it.

Alice, in matchmaker mode, said Scott Sommer


did call her friend Ellen, and she’s trying to fix
up Renee’s ex-boyfriend Billy up with Kathy
Winters after Billy asked Kathy to go to bed
with him.
Well. Summer’s over. Tomorrow I have my
class at SVA, a rush-hour subway ride, and
maybe that interview at Brooklyn College if I
can reschedule it.

I’m probably going to very disappointed when


People comes out without the supposedly
scheduled review of my book, but perhaps I’ll
be too busy to be depressed.

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