Writing a book is a tremendously difficult undertaking. At least, it should be. An easy book to write might not be worth reading. If you want to say a lot and say it well, it requires endless review and revision. I know that’s not what Kerouac thought, and although I like Kerouac well enough, I don’t agree with him and don’t reread him much.
I started the book 15 or 16 years ago. After 13 years, I thought it was finished and I put it aside while I went to work on the songs that are to accompany it. The songs then showed me that the book was not finished. There were themes within the songs that hadn’t been properly addressed in the manuscript. First chance I got—the pandemic—I set back into work on it. I’m almost finished with the latest draft. I’m on Chapter 40 of a 41-chapter book and then I have to rewrite the afterword. I’m also quite close to finishing the songs that go along with it. I’m calling the album Street Songs, although they are not at all voice-and-guitar-type songs, but quite developed with a lot of instrumentation. It’s the soundtrack album to the book. Once I’ve finished the songs I’m going to make a big push to find a publisher and get the two projects out in public. I’ll start the push sometime early to mid-year, next year. I’m eager to be done with both. I’ve spent so much of my life on them and want to start something new. When I started revising the book I was pleased to discover that it was better than I thought.