Greg Fields

Edward Albee’s 𝑾𝒉𝒐'𝒔 𝑨𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝑽𝒊𝒓𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒂 𝑾𝒐𝒐𝒍𝒇? premieres on Broadway in 1962. Albee who liked the sound of the pun, which he first heard at his favorite bar, and used it as his play’s title. In Prague, the play was billed as ‘Who’s Afraid of Franz Kafka?’

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In 1967 𝑩𝒐𝒓𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒍 𝑩𝒐𝒚 premiered as a play in Dublin, adapted from Brendan Behan's book. Behan had died three years earlier at age 41. While in New York he became friends with Arthur Miller and Bob Dylan, but his drinking intensified as he struggled with his fame.

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In 1946 Eugene O'Neill's play 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑰𝒄𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉, centering on a group of alcoholics in a boarding house above a saloon, premiered on Broadway, opening to mixed reviews. It's come to be seen as "a harsh and ruthless drama" and "one of America's greatest plays"

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Frank Herbert (1920-86) While writing an article about Oregon sand dunes he became enthralled by his research. He abandoned the article and wrote 𝑫𝒖𝒏𝒆, which was rejected by 23 publishers before a small press known mainly for its auto-repair manuals took a chance

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City Lights is my favorite bookstore in the world and you’re quite right about the ghosts. Very shelf there tells a story.

In 1955, with Kerouac in attendance, Allen Ginsberg first read 𝑯𝒐𝒘𝒍 at a poetry reading in San Francisco. Ferlinghetti's City Lights Books published it and was brought to trial on obscenity charges, the judge ruling that it was of 'redeeming social importance.'

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On this day two of William Faulkner's novels were published. He wrote 𝑨𝒔 𝑰 𝑳𝒂𝒚 𝑫𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 in six weeks in 1930 while working night shift at a power plant. But he then struggled mightily with 𝑳𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝑨𝒖𝒈𝒖𝒔𝒕 (1932), ripping out pages and changing his main characters.

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Thomas Wolfe (1900-38) - 𝑳𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝑯𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅, 𝑨𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍; 𝑶𝒇 𝑻𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓; 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑪𝒂𝒏'𝒕 𝑮𝒐 𝑯𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝑨𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏

"Man is born to live, to suffer, and to die, and what befalls him is a tragic lot. There is no denying this in the final end. But we must deny it all along the way."

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English novelist Graham Greene (1904-91)

"Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation."

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Novelist Tim O'Brien, born 1946 - 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅

"Stories are for those late hours in the night when you can’t remember how you got from where you were to where you are...when memory is erased, when there is nothing to remember except the story."

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I actually keep this quote on my desk, and it tells me that the judgment of others doesn't really matter. What matters is the writing.

Poet WS Merwin (1927-2019):

I asked how can you ever be sure
that what you write is really
any good at all and he said you can't

you can't you can never be sure
you die without knowing
whether anything you wrote was any good
if you have to be sure don't write

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I share with my family, but I make very certain that I don't expect that, as a first draft, or even a second one, it will be very good. Lowers the pressure all around, and opens the door for their honest reactions.

Ouch

Miguel de Cervantes (1547-1616) He joined the Spanish Armada and wounded his left hand, never regaining its full use. Not the luckiest of men, pirates then captured and enslaved him. Upon returning home he was jailed for fraud. While there he began 𝑫𝒐𝒏 𝑸𝒖𝒊𝒙𝒐𝒕𝒆

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T.S. Eliot (1887-1965) Born in St. Louis, he moved to England in 1914 and became a British subject.

Of his stormy marriage to Vivienne Haigh-Wood: "To her, the marriage brought no happiness. To me, it brought the state of mind out of which came 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑾𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝑳𝒂𝒏𝒅"

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William Faulkner (1897-1962) From his Nobel acceptance speech:

"It is the poet's privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart...The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail."

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International Dublin Writers Festival --- Why We Write (Excerpt) …….And now for the real reason, one which becomes more and more apparent every day.Especially during a time when we’re surrounded by contention, when we cannot avoid the poisons of division, hatefulne...

Back from Ireland where I presented at the Dublin International Writers Festival. I spoke on Why We Write.

"We write to build community, to strip away the pains that plague us and find the purposes, the challenges of simply being alive."

bit.ly/42EGFKQ

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Politically active Chilean poet Pablo Neruda died on this date in 1973. He was in the hospital and called his wife saying “they were giving him something that didn’t feel good." A few hours later he was dead. An investigation into his death is still ongoing.

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Samuel Johnson (1709-84) At Oxford he often went barefoot because he couldn't afford to repair his shoes. Another student left a new pair of shoes by his door. Johnson was furious that students thought he was a charity case so he left school and started writing.

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Ken Kesey (1935-2001) While at Stanford, he took part in a government research project on hallucinogenics. The LSD he was given stayed in his system, and one night he saw a vision of a tall Indian sweeping a floor. The result was 𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝑭𝒍𝒆𝒘 𝑶𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑪𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒐𝒐'𝒔 𝑵𝒆𝒔𝒕.

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On this date in 1896 Stephen Crane, then 24, left a New York brothel with two women on his arm. He falsely claimed one to be his wife but the other was arrested for prostitution. Crane's defense of her at her trial ruined his reputation. He died four years later.

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Agatha Christie (1890-1976) Author of more than 60 mysteries, most of which feature Hercule Poirot. But she grew tired of him, referring to him in her diary as "insufferable" and "an ego-centric creep." This led her to create a new protagonist, Miss Marple.

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Roald Dahl (1916-90) As a boy he was sent to private boarding school, which he hated. But Cadbury had chosen his school to test new candies, so each child was given a box of 11 chocolate bars. This memory fueled his writing of 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑪𝒉𝒐𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝑭𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚

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In 1846 Elizabeth Barrett eloped with poet Robert Browning because her father, whose fortune stemmed from slave plantations in Jamaica, wouldn’t approve of her marriage. They moved to Italy, and when she died in 1861, Elizabeth's last word was "Beautiful"

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D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930) 𝑳𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒆𝒚'𝒔 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓, 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔

When he died most of his obituaries were unsympathetic. Writers like Forster and Huxley praised him, but it took the obscenity trials for 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒆𝒚 to ensure a lasting readership and reputation

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I incorporate them without a spotlight. They're there, but I think it's important, at least for me, to show underrepresented groups as part of the natural mosaic of who we are, an everyday component of our shared humanity.

Poet Mary Oliver (1935-2019), National Book Award and Pulitzer winner for work "grounded in solitude and natural harmony."

"You can have the other words—chance, luck, coincidence, serendipity. I’ll take grace. I don’t know what it is exactly, but I’ll take it."

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She’d likely agree. I’ve had plenty of opportunities to hone that particular skill.

He was pretty randy before they married. In his 40s he was often suicidal. Tough to live with apparently.