Author: Hank Garfield

A Writer Writes about Writers Writing

Hank Garfield

No politics. No cars, trains, buses or bicycles. I’m too tired for any of that. November provided many challenges and anxieties, but I haven’t missed a calendar month since starting this blog in March 2015, and none of my excuses for skipping this one seem compelling.

One could say that teaching three writing classes on-line and trying to write a new novel in 30 days might get in the way of writing a blog post. But other people seem to manage more than one project at a time. I try to keep playing my guitar while there’s no one to listen, and I look at marine catalogues and on-line stores while my boat sits on stands, covered for the winter. 

There’s a thing in November, a challenge for writers to produce 1,666 words each day until the end of the month. It’s even got a name, National Novel Writing Month, and an acronym so unwieldy that I have to keep looking it up: NaNoWriMo. One would think an organization of and for writers might come up with something catchier. It’s like a good book with a lousy title. 

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Amtrak Joe

Hank Garfield


We’re all on pins and needles about the election. Two weeks out, it seems pointless to write about anything else. I’ve already voted, as have millions of other Americans. Now we wait, and hope the whole thing doesn’t fall apart in a spasm of violence and voter intimidation on Election Day.

Can you believe we are worried about this in the United States of America? One thing my friends in Europe admire about us is our political stability. Some of them have lived through overthrow and upheaval; some are still living through it. But we have democratic institutions dating to the 1700s that are supposed to protect us from authoritarianism and insure peaceful transitions of power. That’s what we should see when this is all over: a peaceful transition. But it’s hardly guaranteed.

Most of us have already made up our minds, but that doesn’t seem to slow the outpouring of vitriol on our airwaves and social media. It doesn’t stop the glossy flyers from filling my mailbox every morning. It doesn’t stop the distortions, slurs, and outright lies.

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Common Sense is an Oxymoron

Hank Garfield

This may seem at first like a trivial topic, but I assure you that I am driving toward a larger point.

I grew up on Maine’s Blue Hill peninsula, where, to paraphrase Richard Hooker, author of the M*A*S*H books (long before the TV series), it’s often quicker to get into a car and drive four miles than to make a phone call. It was true then and it’s true now, given the sometimes spotty cell phone reception. The area is a panorama of seascapes, blueberry fields, trees, and small towns and the meandering roads that connect them. The main roads have route numbers, but most people know them by their local names: South Street, the Mines Road, Penobscot Flats.

Because it’s impossible to drive very far in a straight line without running into the ocean, the roads don’t run straight, either. They overlap and combine. Route 172 in Blue Hill is also route 15 and 175. Different roads going different places, they join for a short time.

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