I will never learn conversational italian, or to sail a boat properly, tie a decent fishing knot, or even a sheepshank for that matter. I am afraid that ballroom dancing will forever evade me, I will never feel comfortable cooking in the kitchen. A competent guitarist lacking only a sense of time, I will never feel comfortable playing for or with other people.
I will never get that novel written.
I tried in 1990, in the midst of my divorce, and stopped and started with a few literary threads along the way that basically went nowhere. Lacking interest and inspiration, both dreadful things for a writer not to have in his quiver.
I suppose I could string a few stories together, if forced to at gunpoint, if I wasn't so critical about such things. But I just can't see it happening. A writer is first supposed to have something to say.
But if it does happen, someday, against all odds, I do have a photograph for the back inside cover. I had been eyeing the alley between the pub and the nail salon for some time. I saw Jon Harwood with his film camera one day last week and convinced him to run over and take some shots. He developed them and sent them over and here they are. I'm halfway home. Think they will look good on a juicy crime novel.