I was a pre-med student at GW. I was sitting in a coffee house called the Bronze Angel, trying to write a letter to my girl friend.

Oh, why not just go ahead and make it San Francisco? That can work. So then he'd be going to SF State? Or make it Berkeley.

The coffee house is like Polk & Beans. He's sitting in the window, trying to write this letter.

Is this a girl friend in town or out of town somewhere? What's his problem with her? I think he's trying to salvage the relationship. He's done something she really didn't like and she wants to break up. He's trying to apologize, justify himself.

Okay, let's see a little of this letter.

This is about the tenth draft of the letter, and it's finally beginning to look good to him.

``Dear Allison.''

Jesus, I really block on this one. Think of some of my letters to P, some of my phone messages.

``This is about the tenth draft of this letter. I have all nine of the other drafts sitting here in a pile with a coffee cup sitting on them, and I keep going back and trying to take the good parts from each one and make it into something that will somewhat magically make you stop thinking that I'm such a total shit.

``A pretty impossible assignment, you might say. Well, maybe I could hope to maybe convince you that there's 5% in there somewhere that's not a shit. And if I can get you to look at that 5%, maybe then you'd be open to seeing yet another 5% or even 10%.

``Okay, so I blew it. Okay, so I'm a jealous asshole. I know that I can't lock you up in a cage. Rationally, I know that. But I get really scared sometimes. I never had anybody like you in my life before and I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have you any more.

``We don't have to get married if you don't want. Yes, I understand now how you feel about men who try and own you. But this whole thing is new for me. You've got to help me out.''

Well, anyway. So much for the letter. At least that gives some idea of what he's like and what he's thinking.

Time of day. In a lot of ways I really like late night. Late at night, ``Ninth & Hennepin, where all the donuts have names that sound like prostitutes'' (Tom Waits). Various unsavories hanging out in the coffee house and this college student sitting in the midst of them all. Whores, pimps, non-descript low-life. And then this couple come in, Al & Virginia, arguing loudly, in a way fitting into the low-life milieu, but at the same time better dressed, they fit in here and yet at the same time they clearly don't belong.

I'm starting to think of a fairly upscale nightclub singer or musician who looks upscale, because those are the clothes he needs for work, but after work he heads into one of the rather sleazy bars in the neighborhood.

Or think of Crystal coming into the Saloon from the Hungry I, with her fancy clothes and make-up.

So Al could be this singer or musician. That could make sense.

Words, words, words, where are the words? Looking for the words, looking for the tone. Looking for an opening.

Don't want to get hung up on this coffee house since the plot moves on from it fairly soon.

I used to like the Brass Angel as a place to go when I was depressed. Especially after about ten [eleven?] in the evening, somehow in the midst of whores, pimps, drug dealers, and assorted scumbags, I found it especially easy to think deep thoughts and ponder some of the riddles that have haunted ....

Not bad, but that guy is a whole lot older than my protagonist. God, do I really want to write first person by some twenty-year old?

Okay, he's twenty years old, he doesn't have to be boring. On the other hand, can't make him too interesting. Need to keep him somewhat Neil Simonish for Al & Virginia to play off of.

You know I'm not sure I'm capable of writing twenty-year-old first person.

Okay, twenty years old. In some ways he's got a much livelier mind than a middle-aged narrator. Clever. Yeah, right, he's not boring at all. It's important to him to be clever. Yeah, the point of the story is that he's intelligent. Intelligent and eager. Reads a lot. Thinks a lot. Thinks of himself as taking like very seriously. The way nobody over the age of thirty really does. But a part of this is that life is for him very abstract. An intellectual puzzle. But don't make him trite! Make him sparkle. But now a couple like Al & Virginia, this is beyond his realm. This sort of real-life grit doesn't fit into his concept of life.

Yeah, okay, so he's going to be repelled. And yet fascinated in spite of himself.

Words, words, words, need words.

Where do I find twenty-year old words?

``Dear Allison.    Ludwig Wittgenstein once said...''

Okay, now that's the sort of letter this guy would write to a girl friend. He's so much more intelligent, knows so much more than everybody around him. The sort of young guy, when you listen to him talk he just blows you away. You stand in awe of his knowledge, his vocabulary, his allusions. And so there's no way of connecting with him. He's always lonely, because nobody can imagine connecting with him.

Okay, now this is starting to seem good. Because Virginia is just the opposite. Earthy. Not dumb, not by any means, and not uneducated. In fact, that could be a good joke if she could unexpectedly quote Dostoevsky or Thomas Mann or André Gide.

You know, I could start this whole story with a quotation from Schopenhauer. Or start by mentioning the ideas of Heraclitus & some other Greek philosophers.

This is good, I'm starting to get interested in this story now. This guy is no longer seeming like a total zero.

So here's this guy trying to write a letter to his girl friend, and throwing in all these philosophers because he's trying to impress her and also because that's his frame of reference for the world. That's the way he looks at the world, in terms of abstract principles.

Okay, this guy wants to be a writer. But that's okay, that's sort of the point. He really doesn't understand what writing is all about, he doesn't understand that you can't become a writer through looking at the world the way he does.

And the thing is, Virginia is just as smart as he is, just as educated. But she's coming from the opposite approach, seeing everything in terms of individuals instead of abstract concepts.

What a joke. This guy wants to be a writer, but all he talks about are philosophers. And Virginia is... Well, she's a walking disaster, for one thing. But she can quote writers just as readily as our protagonist can quote philosophers.

Words, words, words, where are the words?

``I need to take a piss. Is it okay if I take a piss or do I need to wet myself and walk around in wet underpants all day?''

That's Virginia.

``If you want to be a writer, why are you studying pre-med? But maybe you can become a doctor who writes. Like Chekhov. Anton Chekhov. He was a doctor. Did you ever hear of him?''

``Of course I've heard of Chekhov.''

``Or John Watson. He was a doctor. Have you heard of him?''

``Um, I think so but I don't know him very well.''

``He wrote the Sherlock Holmes stories.... Aha, I got you there! For a minute you actually didn't think I knew any better than to think that Sherlock Holmes was actually written by Doctor Watson. But in the stories he was the writer. And the stories are very believable, so if Conan Doyle made Doctor Watson into a writer, it makes sense that a doctor can be a writer.''

``Lots of doctors have been writers.''

``Good, I'm glad I finally convinced you. William Carlos Williams.''

I want Virginia to have a somewhat quirky way of looking at the world, thinking, talking. Easier said than done.

I need to give her a history.

Actually, Brenda was a little bit like this, as far as knowing about a lot of things you didn't expect. Knowledgeable, at least, capable of dropping the names.

Combine Brenda with Anne Marie. Experiences with the Hells Angels, traveling on the magic bus with Ken Kesey & the Merry Pranksters, taking LSD right in front of cops while it was still legal.

Also, the after-effects of that life. The hyper-sensitivity to smoke, the ruined liver. The silicone implants still there at age 60.

Yes, let's see. Virginia could have had a few famous writers as boy friends. And also was once a topless dancer, back in the days when topless meant only topless.

Interesting stories. She was dancing one night at the club and this guy came in, she didn't know who he was, of course, and he turned out to be...

Former Miss California? Or even Miss America? How about Miss Nude America? Tricky, because it would be logical to specify the date and I obviously can't do that.

Came from an unlikely New England background. Yes, think about Sadie, daughter of Shirley Jackson. Or Anne Watts, daughter of Alan Watts. But again, tricky, can't make her identifiable as the child of a specific person. Maybe just have her be the daughter of a college professor at Harvard, wherever.

But still, above all, she needs to be completely screwed up. Totally schizoid.

I think it's most interesting if she tells all these stories and it's always in doubt whether they're true or not. Yes, it's good to have her be a flamboyant liar, but the true parts are even more incredible than the lies.

Words, words, words, where are the words?