Let’s start with what this blog isn’t. A tutorial on fiction or non-fiction writing. A how-to for getting published. A brainy critique of literature. A moneymaker so I can retire even more than I am now.
I begin with a story.
In 1972, I was assigned to write a paper for my 7th grade teacher, Mr. Ronson. I don’t recall the topic, but I had trouble starting. The dreaded blank page. I asked my dad if I could go with him to our Mariposa cabin, up in the mountains where I would be free from my distractions.
I roamed the three acres and hunted bluejays with a .22 until I was ready to write. Transistor radio in tow, I climbed the rickety ladder to the ramshackle treehouse. Armed with a pen and paper, I settled in, serenaded by the hits on KYOS 1480. I sang along to Cherry, Cherry by Neil Diamond, smelled the bayleaves, and wrote in the cool shade of the treehouse. At the end of the weekend, I had written most of the paper.
It’s one of my earliest recollections of writing, of enjoying writing. Words into sentences into paragraphs, thoughts and dreams springing to life on paper. Looking back, I can see my love for words, even the sounds and rhythms of the words. Oddly, I was always better at math all the way through high school (I was in AP Calc but not AP English-go figure), but my passion was for stories. I read Jaws in a single weekend because I got hooked by the shark (see what I did there?).
Half a century later, I still have trouble writing at home. No more treehouses now. I sit at Jason’s Deli or some other joint, plug my ears with music, and pound the keys. There are times when the restaurant is filled and the next time I look up, it’s just an elderly couple having an early dinner. And me. That’s where the Treehouse comes from.
And Hurls? Despite the vomitous overtones, it’s just an obvious nickname from some high school friends. Originating from Jeff Kaufman, Alan Lonjin, Mike Astorino, ands Steve Kornegay (aka, Vonnie, Big Al, Astro, and Jorge), the name has stuck with me.
Welcome to Hurl’s Treehouse.
