My Thoughts: The 70's Are Real to Me
In the course of the last two weeks I've had 38 New York agents reject my query letter, biography, writing credentials and pooh-poohed my one page synopsis. But I say, BRING IT ON. Trying to hook a reputable book agent is like fishing - it just takes one good bite; one good hook up and you're jumping up and down in the aluminum boat.
One agent was curious about my time in the ghetto. Let me rephrase...the agent wanted a sample of my writing while I was living on Haight Avenue. I sent her the diary entries you will see below. I wait now for the obligatory 6-8 weeks for a reply:
Living as a hippie is difficult yet empowering. Our four-room slum apartment has one window, a single mattress serving as a couch, and a hand-me-down Samsonite card table for eating. There is incense, candles, posters on the wall, and a black light in the bathroom for the day-glow paint on the footed tub. There are street drugs and plenty of suspicious characters walking the neighborhood. Some wear platform shoes, flowing capes, and flash rolls of cash on the street corner.
We're out of food and I go upstairs to my friend, Cyndi, for a loaf of her homemade bread. Although her apartment isn’t nearly as picked up as mine (she has a rabbit and a seagull living in the front room), her door is always open.
There are cockroaches in our apartment. I fill bowls of sugar and put them in the cupboards for these creepy-crunchy monsters. At least I know where to look for them each morning. The trash guys won’t come into our yard as we have two Dobermans, a German shepherd, and a basset hound.
We sell mescaline in the city for the rent. There is little food in the house and we eat mostly potatoes. Our neighbors, Jack and Liz, give us a small frying chicken and a pound of bacon. A shower curtain divides their kitchen from the living room, and Liz wears hot pants while she cooks. They are good people and poor like us.
I take LSD and the Dobermans turn into new wet colts. The surrounding apartments look 3-D and I’m frantic I’ll never be straight again. We keep the windowpane acid in the refrigerator. I’ve gained 15 pounds on potatoes and munchies, and William won’t take me anywhere when I’m stoned because he said I’m a huge bust. I’ll go on an ice cream diet to lose this bubble butt. I’m 5’8” and 133 pounds.
I have a birthday party for William and there are lots of drugs in the house. We take plastic bread wrappers, tie them together like a rope, and hang them from the ceiling. After I place a bucket of water under the rope, we set the plastic on fire. It lights up pretty fast and the sparks fall into the water. The colors and sounds are amazing. We live in an old Victorian house and have no fire extinguisher. If the ceiling catches fire, we’ll grab the drugs, the pets, and a few clothes.
We play dominoes, lie in the hall, and stare at black light posters. I’m tired and miss my parents. The cockroaches eat better than I do. William finally gets a job as a night clerk in a supermarket. I want out of this apartment and the slum I see every day. The houseplants die and there’s dog shit everywhere. I resent him smoking cigarettes, and the pot and acid and bennies I take are affecting my hair, complexion, and body fat.
Inge, the lady who runs the bakery, offers me the apartment over her garage. She feeds me lunch because she knows there’s no food at home. She calls William a dirty Chinaman although he’s English/Irish. I daydream about her offer but I don’t have enough money to make it on my own. I want to get pregnant so I flush my birth control pills down the toilet. We've lived together for eight months and I buy baby things at the local swap meets when he’s not looking.
At age 20, I find myself quite alone and lonely. I have only a high school diploma and no money to call my own. I'm in a forever fog. The drugs are bringing me down but are the only things that bring me pleasure and peace. We still have no couch and only the card table for dining in. There are candles and incense, but little money and no real food. I’d give anything for a macaroni and fish stick dinner, with lemon pudding cake for dessert.
I tell William to get me out of this Alameda hole. San Francisco is ten miles across the Bay and might as well be a hundred miles. I need more space and sun. The plants keep slowly dying. I am, too.
One agent was curious about my time in the ghetto. Let me rephrase...the agent wanted a sample of my writing while I was living on Haight Avenue. I sent her the diary entries you will see below. I wait now for the obligatory 6-8 weeks for a reply:
Living as a hippie is difficult yet empowering. Our four-room slum apartment has one window, a single mattress serving as a couch, and a hand-me-down Samsonite card table for eating. There is incense, candles, posters on the wall, and a black light in the bathroom for the day-glow paint on the footed tub. There are street drugs and plenty of suspicious characters walking the neighborhood. Some wear platform shoes, flowing capes, and flash rolls of cash on the street corner.
We're out of food and I go upstairs to my friend, Cyndi, for a loaf of her homemade bread. Although her apartment isn’t nearly as picked up as mine (she has a rabbit and a seagull living in the front room), her door is always open.
There are cockroaches in our apartment. I fill bowls of sugar and put them in the cupboards for these creepy-crunchy monsters. At least I know where to look for them each morning. The trash guys won’t come into our yard as we have two Dobermans, a German shepherd, and a basset hound.
We sell mescaline in the city for the rent. There is little food in the house and we eat mostly potatoes. Our neighbors, Jack and Liz, give us a small frying chicken and a pound of bacon. A shower curtain divides their kitchen from the living room, and Liz wears hot pants while she cooks. They are good people and poor like us.
I take LSD and the Dobermans turn into new wet colts. The surrounding apartments look 3-D and I’m frantic I’ll never be straight again. We keep the windowpane acid in the refrigerator. I’ve gained 15 pounds on potatoes and munchies, and William won’t take me anywhere when I’m stoned because he said I’m a huge bust. I’ll go on an ice cream diet to lose this bubble butt. I’m 5’8” and 133 pounds.
I have a birthday party for William and there are lots of drugs in the house. We take plastic bread wrappers, tie them together like a rope, and hang them from the ceiling. After I place a bucket of water under the rope, we set the plastic on fire. It lights up pretty fast and the sparks fall into the water. The colors and sounds are amazing. We live in an old Victorian house and have no fire extinguisher. If the ceiling catches fire, we’ll grab the drugs, the pets, and a few clothes.
We play dominoes, lie in the hall, and stare at black light posters. I’m tired and miss my parents. The cockroaches eat better than I do. William finally gets a job as a night clerk in a supermarket. I want out of this apartment and the slum I see every day. The houseplants die and there’s dog shit everywhere. I resent him smoking cigarettes, and the pot and acid and bennies I take are affecting my hair, complexion, and body fat.
Inge, the lady who runs the bakery, offers me the apartment over her garage. She feeds me lunch because she knows there’s no food at home. She calls William a dirty Chinaman although he’s English/Irish. I daydream about her offer but I don’t have enough money to make it on my own. I want to get pregnant so I flush my birth control pills down the toilet. We've lived together for eight months and I buy baby things at the local swap meets when he’s not looking.
At age 20, I find myself quite alone and lonely. I have only a high school diploma and no money to call my own. I'm in a forever fog. The drugs are bringing me down but are the only things that bring me pleasure and peace. We still have no couch and only the card table for dining in. There are candles and incense, but little money and no real food. I’d give anything for a macaroni and fish stick dinner, with lemon pudding cake for dessert.
I tell William to get me out of this Alameda hole. San Francisco is ten miles across the Bay and might as well be a hundred miles. I need more space and sun. The plants keep slowly dying. I am, too.