Far out. Winter Solstice, my trippy, 70’s novel pitting NAZIs against spies against corporate robots against college students is five years old. Really, it’s forty years old when you think about it. That first draft was finished in 1979.
I have a friend who insists I must have been on drugs writing it, but I swear. No drugs, man. Oh sure, it has arena rock, six foot two inch men, national security, psychedelic drugs, police brutality, social ostracism, and an ex-German scientist time-traveler bent on curing mankind of its sickness. But I wasn’t taking drugs.
Re-reading some bits of WS, and it still has that certain voice. Still unapologetically lets it be. Maybe I was on drugs.
Flaws? Sure. Course it has flaws. But it ain’t too bad, you know? After all these years, I’m not ashamed in any way. Still a crazy book. Make a great Christmas gift I’m sure. Or Solstice gift.
Scott Macmann 