Forty Two Years A Writer

May 25, 1976. Forty two years ago, today.

Against the UNIVERSAL advice of family, friends and professors, I arrived in Hollywood, California, determined to become a writer.

Hollywood High School, 1910 -- Public DomainHollywood High School in 1910

Not a single, solitary “Gee. We wuz wrong,” has been heard in the intervening 42 years.

Nonetheless, I did exactly what I said I’d do. Kitchy koo, mofos.

Here are some pieces from the web:

From the Washington P0st, a review of IN THE  COURTS OF LOVE by Ellen Gilchrist. 

From the Washington P0st, a review of  . . . AND DREAMS ARE DREAMS By Vassilis Vassilikos

Many of my Kansas City Star reviews

From the Hopi Tribal newspaper, the Tutuveni.

From PBS, an interview with me on my reporting work, exposing the Koch Brothers’ network attempt to pass stealth initatives from coast to coast: from Maine to California, from Washington State to South Carolina (and via then-state-legislator Marco Rubio in Florida). They LOST all but one state: Arizona.

And, last but not least, my exposé of Dr. Freddie “Rama” Lenz, from the Santa Fe Sun, and its reprint on EX-CULT dot ORG, whose title was freely plagiarized for many years:

Rama: Lama? Ding-dong?

And my Facebook note:

Moved to Hollywood Walk of Fame
May 25, 1976

I left college for Hollywood, and for fifteen years or so, I had business on, lived on or near, or had my social/religious life on Hollywood, Boulevard. Once lived at Sam Menning’s old crash pad, and literally had the neon strobing of the Chinese Theater keeping me awake on the hide-a-bed.

I’ve talked the talk, walked the walk and paid my dues: copy-editing, editing, proofreading, typesetting, rewriting, ghost writing, fiction, non-fiction, articles, interviews, short stories, novels, copywriting, ad writing, caption writing, think pieces, op-eds, essays, résumés, proposals, filling out government forms and applications for hire, promos, movie reviews, book reviews, pasteup, design and even distributing newspapers from the back of my van.

And that’s just writing. I won’t go into art and music.

And forty-two years ago today I landed on that far shore of Hollywood, to make it or break it on my own skill, guts and talent, asking no quarter and receiving none.

And so it goes.

Courage.

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One response to “Forty Two Years A Writer

  1. Pingback: Two Months in the Facebook Hellhole | his vorpal sword

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