Winter had come a week early—dark, with a dry cold. Layers trap body heat, and protect from the sometimes easy, sometimes harsh winds. But an exposed face invited the wind to strip[...]
I can’t write fiction anymore. I noticed it began late last week when I sat down to write a short story about a group of friends trading stories over dinner. It was a dialogue-heav[...]
The twenty-footer from the left elbow clangs off the front of the rim and the ball shoots back toward me so fast that it almost hits me in the nuts. I’m at the town park behind the[...]
I. He walks into the Los Angeles Public Library. It’s a bustling weekday afternoon downtown, and he’s once again lost among the masses, another ant in stained cloth and worn leathe[...]
Bookstores are the ultimate laxative for this someday novelist. For most of my forty years I’ve trudged the aisles, darting from Bass to Boyle, from Hamsun to Helprin, from Robbins[...]
I’m writing a book. It’s the story of another man’s life, in his words. He’s not a writer. He’s a professional athlete. We met when he played for a team I covered as a member of th[...]