I would pay a lot of money to interview the great authors of our time. Steinbeck, Bronte, Hemingway, Austen, Twain, London, Service, John McDonald, Robert Parker. But at the top of my bucket list would be Henry Charles Bukowski {1920-1994}. So I asked myself would it be so very strange or inappropriate to pretend what it might have been like? Post an interview with ‘Hank’ Bukowski even though he’s been dead almost twenty years? The answer was no!
I imagined I was sitting with him, in a corner booth, in some neighborhood watering hole. Old die-hard drunks sit up at the bar minding their own business. I can see tree roots growing from the seat of their pants into the seat of the bar stools. Wet, green tendrils curl around the stool legs. They don’t speak. They stare into their empty glass or into their own smoky reflection in the mirror on the back wall. What do they see? A long-lost heaven? A nearby hell?
Bukowski has already finished his first drink and signals the bartender for another. I am paying of course. (viewer discretion advised ~ language)
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The Interview:
Q. Where do you write? Do you have a special room, shed, barn, special space for your writing?
CB. Anywhere they’ll leave me the hell alone. I’m not particular.
Q. Do you have any special rituals when you sit down to write?
CB. A fifth of bourbon, a couple packs of cigarettes. Quiet. Enough paper, which can be a problem when I’m between jobs.
Q. What is your mode of writing?
CB. A pencil or pen, I don’t care. Paper. My Remington typewriter if it’s not in pawn. Sometimes the bartender will let me have the left over stubs of pencils 
from around the bar. Many years ago, this drunk in a suit was sitting next to me, over there at the bar. He was complaining that his company had bought something called a ‘computer’ and they were making him learn how to do his sales reports on it. He hated it but he said, ‘I fear that it is the face of the future, Hank.’ Goddamn machines, taking over the world and us bit by bit. I’ll stick to my pencil and paper.
Q. Do you have a set time each day to write or do you write only when you are feeling creative?
CB. Listen, girl, I wish there were more times when I didn’t ‘feel creative’; didn’t need to write. Occasionally when I’m f—ing or I’m blind drunk, or both, I can take a break and forget.
Q. What’s your best advice to other writers for overcoming procrastination?
CB. Legitimate writers don’t procrastinate.
Q. How does a writer begin? How do you write, create?
CB. You don’t try. That’s very important: not to try, when it comes to Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It’s like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks you make a pet out of it.
Q. Do you ‘get lost’ in your writing and for how long?
CB. I’m lost right now. Wait fifteen minutes…..(he stared into space) nope, still lost. Does that answer your question?
Q. Who or what is your ‘muse’ at the moment?
A. Ha! You’re funny. Let’s see, junkies, slant-eyed women, barkeeps, dogs, cats, mocking birds, my landlady, bums, women….oh yeah, women most definitely. War, rain, politicians, pigs, beautiful young girls as they walk by, Jane, the shoeshine man, booze, my father, gravediggers, whores in Mexico.
Q. When did you begin to write seriously?
CB. I don’t remember…a long, long time ago.
Q. How long after that were you published?
CB. Decades. I sent my stuff to every sex rag, publisher, and agent I could find. It was always rejected until one day It wasn’t. I’d sell my blood so I could buy stamps.
Q. What makes a writer great?
CB. You can’t have rules. No woman who is so important that she gets in your way. No job that can keep you from what you have to do. Knowing that sometimes when you’re drunk you are a better writer.
Q. ….and the all important: What does the process of going from “no book” to “finished book” look like?
CB. There’s never ‘no book’ for me. It might not be down on paper yet, but it’s always there. When my head gets so full it might explode then I find a pencil and write it down. I don’t give a shit if a book is ‘finished’. That’s what publishers are for. I just send them my stuff and if they print all of it or some of it, I’m happy. The thing that I won’t let them do is change anything. Not a word. It drives ’em crazy.
Q. What inspired your stories and your poetry?
CB. Mostly the streets of L.A. And don’t call my shit ‘poetry’. That’s what the suits call it so people will buy it. “…my poems are only bits of scratchings on the floor of a cage…” Mostly I just write what I see and how I feel about it. And I see a lot of sick shit. And I don’t feel so good about it.
Q. Is there anything else you’d like my readers to know?
CB. Yeah, a few things: ‘We have wasted History like a bunch of drunks shooting dice back in the men’s crapper of the local bar.’ and……
‘There will always be something to ruin our lives, it all depends on what or which finds us first. We are always ripe and ready to be taken.’ and….
‘The difference between a democracy and a dictatorship is that in a democracy you vote first and take orders later; in a dictatorship you don’t have to waste your time voting’……. and finally,
‘I don’t like jail, they got the wrong kind of bars in there.’
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MY 
features INTERVIEWS with best-selling AUTHORS! Did you miss the past few months? March: Mystery (and Western) writer, Larry D. Sweazy. April: World Traveler, Tal Gur. June: mystery author, Manning Wolfe.
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Ashtray ~~ noun. A receptacle for tobacco ashes of smokers. 
At my first wedding back in 1959 we received a cut-crystal ashtray and I loved it. We didn’t smoke but had family and friends who did. Back then visitors smoked in your home and ashtrays were mandatory. This wedding present had place of pride on our coffee table.
shunned the use of the traditional ashtray as it failed to reflect their feminine values through an activity that was long heralded as being exclusive to men. What emerged were detailed, often very ornate ashtrays. These ashtrays depicted pastoral scenes of maidens wandering through vibrantly colored landscapes. Some even featured very lavish, cast-iron models of women in frilly dresses, animals in states of play and the occasional porcelain/ceramic tray highlighting extravagant floral arrangements.’
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‘Many a fervid man writes books as cold and flat as graveyard stones.’- Elizabeth Barrett Browning
