Writing can not be good unless it is sincere. That is the standard by which we can judge William Marinelli's work to be good. Yes, it is true that intent is one of the hardest things to prove in any court. But there is another rule corollary to the "sincerity test" which Marinelli himself creates in his dark and fragmentary story "The Deepest Burial": "Love is [not] interchangeable with obligation." It follows, therefore, that writing done only as an obligation is as likely devoid of love. Reading William Marinelli's newest book, Gone Fishing, one can not help but sense the sincerity, the strong sense that this writing is an act of love.

Indeed, one might ask "Why write at all?" Again, conventional wisdom dictates we do this or that for love or money. Creative writing is hardly ever for the money; it must be love. Everything about Gone Fishing bespeaks a love of craft and an openness many writers are afraid to show, capturing moments worthy of notice and creating characters we can both study and enjoy.

There is Paul, in "Shangri-La Shoes, " who rebels against his moneyed past and searches for love. The story asks at what moment our sense of invincibility collapses, leaving only bills to pay and a glimpse at our own mortality. It is never explained why this particular person becomes the catalyst for Paul's undoing. Good writing does not always need that kind of answer; rather, it can raise just the right question!

In "Bogie and Bacilli, " we are asked what those two icons of popular culture would have done. A couple, each caught in a cycle of dependencies, carries on with life. Will he ever be able to keep his promise, break free of his addictions? Will she realize the wait for a cure for this sad relationship is a statistical unlikelihood? Good writing is life-like; good art transcends life. Just as life is made finer by the creative process, so Marinelli's stories achieve what worthy writers desire, the believability that imbues them with sincerity and hence a higher level of art.

Similarly his poems succeed for both their honesty and craft. In the title poem, "Gone Fishing, " we are asked whether we are "putting all that water between us, " or getting closer. Titling a poem, an entire book, Gone Fishing is itself an act of trust--trust that the reader will accept a familiar notion as vehicle for new invention; trust that we can learn by looking closely at our past. A woman "Stopped at a Light, " glancing at a school bus, has a spontaneous flashback which explains intuitively who she is and as likely why she will do what she does. A boy remembering a "Swimming Lesson, " balances cruelty and necessity. That poem, again, like the best of writing, asks us to "stroke to the other side." "Mantis, " one of Marinelli's finest poems, captures and glorifies details so that reality is not just summarized but somehow justified in just fifteen lines of verse.

If the definition of work is "having to be there, " then Marinelli clearly transcends just work. These stories, poems, given so willingly, are working definitions of why a writer writes: to share a love of language; to celebrate existence. Thank goodness for William Marinelli and his art.

David B. Axelrod July, 2002 Selden, NY