From a story called, "Lucille"

My parents were worried about winter roads but I wondered what they'd say if they knew I was bringing Lucille. They were thinking about snow tires and I was trying to figure out how I could be cool for an entire weekend. Seems like we were always on different paths.

I picked her up at three, she had a spare last period. I lied and told my mom I had one too. The Pontiac was packed, mom made me put a snowmobile suit in the trunk and emergency candles in the glove compartment.

"Did your dad ask?"

Lucille didn't say anything. She just fired up a smoke and placed it between those gorgeous lips.

"It's only about an hour if the roads are good." I cringed, sounding like my father telling a story.

"My little sister was crying this morning," she said in-between puffs. "Tears and snot were running down her cheeks into her fruit loops."

"Did you bury Chester?"

"It was gross."

I stopped myself from asking if she meant the dog or her sister.

The highway was bone dry, the sun glared down out of cloudless sky.

"I don't know what the hell they were worrying about. Look at this." I laughed and swept my hand over the dashboard. My laughter bounced around the inside of the car and sunk into the backseat. I felt it go there. Lucille crushed her smoke into the ashtray.

An hour later, we reached the entrance to the provincial park. The road in was covered with a layer of dirty snow.

"I've been here. When I was a kid," Lucille said.

"My cousin pulled a 12-pack for me. I hope it didn't freeze, probably not, I wrapped the snowmobile suit around it." I always went on too long, it was like I didn't want to stop talking because if I did I was worried she wouldn't say anything, or worse, that she would.

Gravel and snow crunched under the tires as I drove through the gate. As I came to the last turn before our road my chest went tight and a piss shiver went right through me. How the hell had I got her to agree to coming and what the hell was I going to do with her? It wasn't like those stupid stories in the magazines where eyes ignited and the man and the woman are consumed with passion.
How do people even believe that?

Good grief for sure.

In my other life as an illustrator, the hidden life that I don't talk about at this blog (the life that pays the bills), I spent a number of years pursuing a syndicated comic strip. I thought it was the perfect marriage of my two loves: writing and drawing. The contract never came, though I felt I was getting close at times with personal rejections and invitation to resubmit from King Features in New York and reaching the final stages of a contest with the Washington Post.

The interesting thing that happened in the almost 10 years I did this was I realized how much I loved to write. I have wrote about the difficult challenge of writing a strip – and I have seen up close how this is a daily hill/mountain to be climbed by those who do score the contract (like my friend Mark Heath). I still follow what's happening in the comic world, but admittedly less than I use to. Maybe it's why I identify so much with John Updike, a writer that also has cartooning in his background and speaks so highly of the art and craft.

A recent book review by one of the greats about one of the greats reminded me how much I do admire this art form. The depth of Schulz's work on the page may never be reached again – perhaps because we live in a different, less patient time. I plan on picking up this book, not for its gossipy behind the scenes look at Schulz's life, but for its reminder on the quality of work that comes from truly putting yourself, pain, warts and all, on the page.

Good grief for sure.

Watterson on new Schulz Biography

You are getting sleepy...

Everyone should have a "scary author" photo - just to show how serious of a writer they are. Here is mine.

(If you could see the full photo you would notice that I am wearing my favorite jammie-pants with the ducks on them... real scary.)

GreeneLand

I love Graham Greene - when I read his books I am immersed in another part of the world. And I am not there as a tourist, I am amidst the grit, sweat, blood and pain of society. I have been to Mexico (The Power and The Glory), Haiti (The Comedians), across Europe and Istanbul (Travels with My Aunt), and many other countries with Mr. Greene.

I find his books are the best to read if you need to leave the country for a while and you aren't the Club Med type.

Above is my homage, grainy photo of yours truly, in a Jamaican locale.
At least I can sort of look the part.

And the Nobel goes to.... oh, who gives a shit.

I laughed out loud reading this story about Doris Lessing winning the Nobel. You gotta love her.

Lessing not impressed by Nobel Prize
By RAPHAEL G. SATTER, Associated Press Writer
LONDON - Doris Lessing pulled up in a black cab where a media horde was waiting Thursday in front of her leafy north London home. Reporters opened the door and told her she had won the Nobel Prize for literature, to which she responded: "Oh Christ ... I couldn't care less."

Lessing later said she thought the cameras were there to film a television program. Vegetables peeked out from blue plastic bags she carried out of the cab.

"This has been going on for 30 years," she said, as reporters helped her with the bags.

"I've won all the prizes in Europe, every bloody one, so I'm delighted to win them all, the whole lot, OK?" Lessing said, making her way through the crowd. "It's a royal flush."

"I'm sure you'd like some uplifting remarks," she added with a smile.

Lessing, who turns 88 this month, is the oldest winner of the literature prize. Although she is widely celebrated for "The Golden Notebook" and other works, she has received little attention in recent years and has been criticized as strident and eccentric.

Asked repeatedly if she was excited about the award, she held court from her doorstep and noted she had been in the running for the Nobel for decades.

"I can't say I'm overwhelmed with surprise," Lessing said. "I'm 88 years old and they can't give the Nobel to someone who's dead, so I think they were probably thinking they'd probably better give it to me now before I've popped off."

Surrounded by members of the international media in her flower-packed garden, Lessing was dismissive of the Nobel — calling the award process graceless and saying the prize "doesn't mean anything artistically."

She acknowledged the $1.5 million cash award was a lot of money, but still seemed less than thrilled.

"I'm already thinking about all the people who are going to send me begging letters — I can see them lining up now," she said. The phone in her house, audible from the street, rang continuously.

Lessing brightened when a reporter asked whether the Nobel would generate interest in her work.

"I'm very pleased if I get some new readers," she said. "Yes, that's very nice, I hadn't thought of that."