karl oman

Desert Story

I went to this writer’s paradise when I was 20. I’d been rolling along before that, trying all sorts of things. I was out in the Mojave, sleeping in my car, burning tires at night in the cold, when I saw the sign. It pointed off down a dirt track, white paint, gilt letters. “Writer’s Paradise,” it said. I had to go and see if it lived up to the billing.