I wonder if I would write more if I lived on Cannery Row. Does the ghost of John Steinbeck patrol the streets? Does he hide around corners waiting to pass out tickets for writer's block? If so, I would owe a fortune and my writer's license would definitely be suspended, possibly even revoked.
Maybe I should move there and shuffle the street drinking coffee and carrying a moleskin in my back pocket. I can spend my mornings watching the sea lions that live where the sardine canning factories used to stand. I bet the sea lions have names like Dora and Mack and Doc and they'll refer to me as "The Chinaman," as I quietly stroll through their town searching for inspiration.
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