It’s been quiet on the blog the last month, I know. December has been somewhat busy, including a week out of town in San Francisco for a work visit and holiday party. This trip, though, made me wonder if I was cut out to be a writer. As the legend goes, a writer in a new place is absorbing the environment, making notes and recording everything for later use.
I didn’t do any of that.
If I had, I’d have written about the apartment I stayed in via Airbnb, and the funky smell and oddly old decor. Not vintage 1980’s, just used and last updated in the 80’s.
I’d tell of the interesting 1/2 mile walk to work, starting just up the hill from the Beat museum and a topless bar, through a myriad of adult entertainment establishments until I would emerge in the heart of the historical part of the financial district. I’d tell about the observation and implications of strip clubs sitting on the periphery of the financial district, and the implication that had in my mind for a symbiotic relationship.
I’d tell of how loud it is at night just a few doors up from a topless bar, and of how the bouncers, both well muscled thugs in the traditional stereotype, can give you the most dissecting looks as you pass by to huff and heave your way up the hill.
I’d even tell you of the attractive young woman that stopped me one morning to see if I knew the way to strip club aptly named “Strippers,” implying that I fit in only too well. Whatever that implied.
At the very least, I should have noted that the worst rain storm in almost ten years made its way through the Bay area. I didn’t see any of the damage first the hand – the advantage, I suppose, of being at the top of a hill.
I didn’t write about any of these things. For me, it was just another trip where I spent a week moving from work to bed and back again. The closest thing to a site I saw was that I could see the Bay Bridge during my walk, at least when my overweight, out of shape body wasn’t too busy moaning and complaining about the walk.
Writers are supposed to do these things, right? To note and record observations, in case at some later point they need to reuse one of those details.
Bah. I’ve got a novel I’m not outlining and a story I’m not plotting to get back to.