In San Francisco I can’t cross streets like Turk or Polk without thinking about Dashiell Hammett, his time here, his drinking here, his initial detective work, and then that great novel. I can’t go to North Beach without thinking about Kerouac, or his drinking here, and his eventual novel. Likewise, I can’t go to Marin County without thinking about London’s Wolf House, his drinking all over this freaking city, his time in Oakland, his many works, then the way the Wolf House burned just as it was nearly finished, and how London died shortly after. At least he found love before he died though.

When I come to San Francisco, I think about the many writers who came here before me. Sure I dig on the art scene, the rebel galleries in SoMa as opposed to the more predictable ones over on Geary, and all the different artists I’ve addressed at the signings. I think about that. But because I’m first a writer, I think about the novelists. Then I have a drink with a friend, but only a couple. I’m not into the self-destructive thing anymore, rather the constructive thing.

Point Reyes, Stinson Beach, Mount Tamalpais. I couldn’t come here without hiking, or wading, at each. Afterward there was my signing at Book Passage in Marin. This is one of the most renowned bookstores on the West Coast. I mean David McCullough has signed here, as has Amy Tan, as has Zadie Smith and Jimmy Carter. But what I really dug was how after my talk was done, and I’d signed the books, and the crowd had left inspired and smiling, the events manager took me aside and said this was one of the best signings she’d hosted in a long time. A very long time.

Damn. That was a good note on which to leave for Oregon. I mean, damn!