Hello, and welcome to my blog. And ‘welcome back’ to my regular readers.
This year has been a busy one, with several months of preparation culminating in a five-week trip across the United States, coast to coast. Hence the silence.
I had two things on my mind when I planned this trip. One was to pay homage to a handful of writers who inspired me as a young man – in the qualities of their work, their dedication to the craft of writing and the unorthodox lives they led.
The list was simple enough. Joining up the dots on the map meant a journey clear across the country from Massachusetts to California. In some cases I was looking at birthplaces, in others gravestones.
In Concord, Massachusetts, I hired a guide to take me to the grave of Henry David Thoreau. I read Walden, or ‘Life in the Woods’ in the 1970s, when I was working as a freight train guard in York, dreaming of following in his footsteps. Living in the woods I later managed to do. Being self-sufficient I attempted for a few years. Leading a contemplative life as a writer – well, the struggle goes on. On the plane I re-read his masterpiece and was truly shocked at how many lines leapt out at me and reminded me of the passionate desire I harboured in my twenties to tread a different path.
‘The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation’
‘And when the farmer has got his house… it may be the house that has got him.’
From Concord I went to Lowell and was shown around Kerouac’s home town by a volunteer guide. I finally saw the house at 9 Lupine Road, where the hero of my 20s was born, and later squatted at his gravesite, a plain stone slab set in the ground. There were years when I certainly tried to write like Kerouac. I got to know a lot about him and his contemporaries. In 2004 I was Kerouac writer in residence in Florida. Following that I got to know his former lover Carolyn Cassady, wife of Neal (Dean Moriarty in On The Road). So he remained a significant figure in my life for a long time.
A few days later I was in Chicago, trying to remember just what it was that so fascinated me about Hemingway that I undertook a pilgrimage, in the summer of my 19th year, to Pamplona, Spain. I think I believed the critics, that understanding him was vital to understanding American literature. I shall have to ponder that when I write the book I am planning – an account of this year’s journey wrapped around a reflection on my writing career, 1966 to present day. Did Hem influence me? I’m sure he did. But how?
With Mark Twain it’s a far easier question. His adventurous life, his delight in the vernacular style, his regard for the common (and uncommon) man, his wit, all fed into the way I have tried to write. Seeing his home town of Hannibal, slap bang beside the mighty Mississippi, reminded me of the power of that river, its presence, its significance in American history, culture and economy, while the town itself suggested why young Sam Clemens was in such a hurry to get away.
And then to his birthplace (below), the actual cabin in which he drew his first breath in 1835. A true goose-bump moment.
To see the home of my first literary hero I had to fly out to California. John Steinbeck came to me when I was fifteen, and holed up in the school sanatorium. Sweet Thursday was the book – rather racy, but making a huge impact on me for its celebration of America’s dispossessed and disregarded.
I did say that I had two things on my mind when I planned the trip, and in between the pilgrimage sites I spent some time in Nebraska. I attended another Mari Sandoz conference and launched my new novel, Lost and Found in Nebraska. I returned yet again to the Sandhills to see old friends, give a couple of talks and top up on scenery.
Then the long drive down to New Mexico to visit friends in Taos an Albuquerque. As well as spending time with friends (top picture) I managed a little hiking out at the Ghost Ranch, where legendary artist Georgia O’Keeffe spent many years.
And finally, Sacramento, where I spent an enthralling day with one of Neal Cassady’s daughters, Cathy. She told me a version of Neal’s life which is absolutely at odds with the version we have all been fed. She spoke with real feeling of a kind and loving, a fun-loving dad, whom she sorely missed after his death at the age of 42.
Over the next year I’ll be writing a book about the trip, and writing occasional blogs as I progress. If you’ve enjoyed this, check in again some time. See how it’s shaping up.
Meanwhile, do please comment on what you’ve read. Ask questions. I’d really like to know my readers.