Here is the introduction to a dark novella I'm about 50% completed (Working title Pacifica). It takes place in L.A. in '77, at the height of 70's excess, coke and the birth of punk. The main character is a young girl just arrived from back east. You never get her name. She leaves a swath of destruction from Hollywood boulevard to Laurel Canyon in her wake. 




August 14, 2017


   It’s been 40 years since the events depicted here took place. 40 years is a long time. 40 years is half a lifetime. People change so much in 40 years. Babies become middle aged men and women. Those in the prime of their youths are either golfing or dead. It can affect writing, too. Memories can drift and distort. Characters change as we change. 40 years is a long damn time. Fresh pains become dull, subliminal aches. Happy memories become fuzzy, faded and soft, like a favorite blanket. Lost loves become holes, over time those holes fill up with dirt, dust and junk.

  The anthropologist Richard Price once fretted over writing down stories he was told for fear that committing it to paper would ‘canonize’ it and forever lock it to time and place. That it would sap the life from it and commit it to stone. There is no concern for that here. All the primary players in this tale are dead. The time to commit is now, lest it be forever lost and their stories are never told again.

  Before we begin, I ask that you remember one thing: before they were adults, before these events depicted came to so define them, before they were good or bad people, they were all once children. From what I can tell, not one of them was a bad seed. Life just happens that way.