This was a dark week, and it’s difficult to think of anything else. But it’s too soon for me to write about it.

So instead I’ll do something I’ve done before, and post a reprint.

My selection this time is a brief essay I wrote about my beloved home city in early 1997, first published as an introduction to my story “We Love Lydia Love” in the 1998 collection ONE DAY CLOSER TO DEATH.

This time around, though, I’m including footnotes to comment on what’s changed (or hasn’t) over the past ten years.

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AUSTIN, 1997^{(and 2007)}

There’s an old adage that says writers (or artists or musicians) should write (or paint or sing) only about things they know firsthand, and I’ve met a number of writers (etc.) who take that adage to heart. Their chain of logic is as follows:  1) Writing (etc.) is about life. 2) Life at its purest involves suffering and confusion. 3) I must therefore suffer and become confused. And 4) Hey! Drugs and destructive liaisons could be a fun way to accomplish 3)!⁽¹⁾

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I interview James D. Macdonald and Debra Doyle about the mysterious radioactive spider origins of the Viable Paradise Writers Workshop.