Last night at Old Ironsides I got into a discussion with an acquaintance - a really nice friend of a friend - about the pros and cons of living in San Francisco versus living in Sacramento. He and his girlfriend live in SF - for professional reasons - but often come up to Sac for the weekend.

I can just let my hair down here, you don?t have to worry about people who are pretentious, he told me. If it wasn't easier for our jobs to be in San Francisco, then we would probably live here.

And it's true - although believe me, there are pretentious people in this town - it seems more relaxed here, more down-to-earth, more like living and less performing.

I've thought about moving to the Bay Area - for "professional reasons" - but when I have these thoughts, I remember what I said when I moved back from New York: I can be a writer anywhere. And I can.

It's just probably easier being a published writer in a city such as NYC or SF.

San Francisco, Oakland and Berkeley have great literary/alternative publishing communities and there are definitely times that I think it would serve me better to live closer to them.

But then again, isn't that why God created e-mail and the Internet? Certainly one does not have to live in the hub to be served or contribute to the hub.

Certainly one does not even have to be a part of the hub in order to be quote-unquote successful.

Right?

I admit there's a part of me that gets defensive when I think about Sacramento -the little town that really wanted to do something- some sort of twisted reversal on the old if I can make it here I can make it anywhere credo.

But I do dream of moving elsewhere. Someplace Bigger! Better! Faster!

And then sometimes I dream about creating or being a part of a Sacramento-sized version of that Bigger! Better! Faster! You know, work with other writers. Start a literary journal. Create something new. Certainly this town could use its own version of an 826 Valencia or a Kitchen Sink magazine.

Of course, that's a lot of work and I don't know to whom I should talk or where to start.

I'm torn. When I'm driving down the streets near my neighborhood, in love with the old houses and leafy trees and quiet charm, then I'm home. When I'm hanging out with longtime friends, then I'm home. When I can drive around in circles and not be lost, then I'm home.

When I'm thinking about Things That Could Be - then I don?t know where I belong.