"Craving the Return: Fiction Calls My Name"

Bridges of echoes—where Abel waits and the skyline remembers

Lately, the pull to dive headlong back into fiction has become almost irresistible. It's as if every word I type in a blog or journal—those desperate attempts to keep my writing muscle flexing—only reminds me of what I truly crave: weaving stories and breathing life into imaginary worlds. I’m worn out from chronicling my days, restless for the thrill and freedom that only fiction brings. The hunger is real. The time is close.

The Painted People Story and a Skyline of Memories
To rekindle that spark, I’ve resurrected the Painted People Story, forever etched into the soul of San Francisco. My writing area now features a majestic, black-and-white print of the city skyline-- the version I grew up with, not the polished, modern silhouette and Golden Gate Bridge in color. It's more than décor; it’s a portal. I find myself tracing the outlines of neighborhoods, each one a chapter from my own story: Sutro Tower and the windswept nights at Twin Peaks, Bernal Heights rising in the distance, where I lived on Mirabel Street through three houses and three lovers (one fancied himself a guru, expecting devotion I could never muster...He called himself Mr. Good, the title I was only allowed to address him in or out of bed....), Fell Street’s chaos, Hayes Valley’s eclectic charm, and the gritty pulse of the Tenderloin. I almost laugh aloud as I point them out, like old friends suspended in monochrome. Potrero Hill, where it all began—where the real-life inspiration for Abel Erikson, the heart of Painted People, first came into my life—remains stubbornly out of sight in the print, as if the city is playing a sly trick on me.

Holiday Magic and Unexpected Echoes
In the here and now, the Christmas tree stands tall and proud in my living room, nearly finished. Isn’t it wild how a tree can transform a space, fill it with wonder and warmth, make even the harshest winter feel like an embrace? For almost two months, I wish the spell could linger for the other ten. Outside, the city is alive with light—the downtown gazebo at North Division and Central Avenue is ablaze, and the songs float through the air. Standing in the plaza garage, I can hear the carols mingling with laughter, but my path takes me elsewhere. The city is shining, but I am chasing something deeper, something that flickers behind the skyline on my wall and in my memory.

A Dark Twist: Shadows Beneath the Festive Glow
Just as the holiday spirit reaches its crescendo, I stumble upon a story that shakes me: news of a man beaten by the Peekskill Police down at the Riverfront Green Gazebo. The shock is personal—I know him, not intimately, but through years of brief greetings, a shared nod or “good morning.” I always figured he was a decent soul, maybe down on his luck, perhaps homeless at times, but never a bother. He never asked me for anything—not spare change, not a cigarette—just a little recognition, a touch of humanity. Now, under the same festive lights that promise hope and joy, his story adds a twist to the night, a reminder that beneath the city’s shimmer, shadowed lives play out in silence.

Conclusion: Where Fiction and Reality Collide
The urge to write fiction has returned, more urgent than ever, fed by nostalgia, heartbreak, and the dizzying beauty of San Francisco as décor in my writing space. Each memory, every twist—whether heartwarming or tragic—fuels the stories I need to tell. The city is my muse, its skyline a map of love, loss, and longing, its real-life dramas the unexpected twist that fiction craves. Tonight, as the Christmas tree glows and the city hums, I know I’m almost home. The stories are waiting. And this time, I’ll answer the call with all the excitement, heartbreak, and wonder they deserve.