All posts

I didn’t intend to write two memoirs; writing about “my life” was something I’d never considered. I wrote and published a book about living out of a van for year (No Signal), but that was more about an experience— And then my father had a stroke in early 2025. I started thinking about the past and then a few months had passed and I’d written several hundred pages. I was writing about my life…but I wasn’t— I was witnessing this character with my name who did things I remember

It’s a lovely day, a lovely day Weatherman said right around eighty Everyone smiles in the training films See the scenes lit for beauty There’s doughnuts in the break room Morning programs where everyone laughs An old man in Wisconsin frozen tears Dead in his chair cause he couldn’t keep on the gas I’m on the fast track, my friend On the fast track to a bad end It’s a lovely day, a lovely day A lovely day to drop dead 300k in a 401k and it’s all okay Fuck you, Lewy Body Demen

I am pleased to announce my second book of memoirs, See The Stars They're Shining Bright, is now available on Amazon. If you enjoyed The Bad Kids this new book picks up where it left off with me starting high school. Here's a brief synopsis: Growing up isolated on a hill, Izaak re-invents himself as "David" to survive high school. The next fifteen years of bands, heartbreak, and false starts slowly teach him that the only life he can live is his own. Here's where you can find

The Valiant was replaced by a 1960 Buick LeSabre Mom bought for $500. Unlike the Plymouth, the key didn’t start it, the gas pedal did. That was a handy piece of information. When Norman and my mother went on a trip somewhere, I would surreptitiously take that mammoth Buick for a drive. The keys were always left in the cars when up on the Hill, there was no one around to steal them— Aside from certain teenaged boy. The brakes on the Buick were not trustworthy; I found that

Alright, the whole thing about the Iran War…no one wants to think about that, right? Like I said, I am going into political issues very rarely. This time I’m going to share something more peaceful, more calming, okay? A tranquil place out in nature. Ready? I sometimes imagine myself like I am watching a Super 8 film. Me, after letting my hair grow out (what’s left of it!) and pulling it into a long, white ponytail with a matching, full white beard. Flat cap and prescription s

Don't worry, I'm not going to make a habit about writing about political stuff. This will be an anomaly. When I was a child I had a globe. It was a nice one, on a stand like a movie prop. I was always turning that globe, marveling at the countries, wondering what it would be like to travel to them. I loved my globe but that didn’t stop me from driving a knife into it. I was aiming for Iran but hit India; the cardboard punctured and my globe was wrecked. Why? Because it was 19

I am putting out an EP in the near future. Five songs, right under twenty minutes. This is ridiculous; why would someone in their fifties put out an album? I’m not accusing you of saying that, it’s more something I toss back at myself. Why? Because I have entered the “Ah, fuck it” years. I am getting naked— No…you don’t need to run off in horror, I am speaking metaphorically (or is it figuratively?). I do what I am inspired to do…there is the necessary evil that is a straight

What is it you want? Is it something I can give you? Is either question even relevant? I read yesterday that some Nascar driver died at 41, an illness equally sudden and effective… Like a tsunami. I am two years younger than my grandfather when he died…suddenly. I am not supposed to be contemplating the mysteries of life, though, I’m supposed to be reinforcing a brand: I write books. There’s one of sale. Here’s the link. This is America, everyone likes a winner, do you enjoy

Do you remember station wagons? Not the crossovers everyone drives now, station wagons. My family had a few Volvo wagons. They were slow as fuck, this tank of a car with a four cylinder engine. But people were more patient then; didn’t need a four hundred horsepower engine, zero to sixty in five seconds or whatever. You’d load the family in the Volvo wagon and have a leisurely trip up to a campground; put the tent up. Very few people had these quarter million dollar trai

We are the same creatures as five hundred years ago. The clothes are different, how we get from place to place has changed, but we are the same animals. The pace of life has accelerated: It started with automobiles and then computers and now with A.I. The amount of content available to us has gone from a teaspoon to a tsunami— But we are the same creatures we were when the Pilgrims landed in the New World. Or, for that matter, when the Roman Empire faded into the past. How ar

Every day, I contemplate quitting my job and my apartment. I’d sell my car, buy a van for a few thousand less, and just…travel. I think about it every day. And every day I talk myself down—remind myself how it ends: out of money by late summer, back to another job, another lease, another reset. Maybe worse than this one. I know the downside. That’s the problem. It’s not a fantasy—I’ve already stepped outside once. Six years ago, I removed myself from this modern world and saw

Every morning I get up and work on the second memoir. Even work days; the moment I am semi coherent I’m editing. Part of me is proud of my diligence, part of me wonders if it’s wasted effort— What’s the point in turning out the second memoir when you’re not promoting the first one? I should be marketing, making connections, winning people over…I understand that. So, I feel accomplished and a failure at the same time. I’m sure many of you writers out there understand. Perhaps

I have moved many times in my life. The process appeals to my systematic mind: Acquiring boxes and tape. Plotting out what to pack when. Mentally determining how to arrange the boxes in the van. The process appeals to my mind, the execution is what I could do without. Three more moves, that is the goal: From my new place to the interim place. From the interim place into storage. And, finally, from storage to the last place I will live. That is the goal, at least. When my ti

I write books as well as songs. I play the word processor, I play the guitar. I’ve been doing what I call “art shit” since I was a teenager— (This story will be told in the second memoir, which comes out in late June). Cleaning out an external drive, I came upon songs I recorded when I was 19. What I lacked in skill, I made up for in pretentiousness: I took myself far too seriously back then. Honestly, I cringed as I listened to those old recordings. I was an insecure child p

The Hill I grew up around sociopaths and low rent conmen. I grew up around wealthy people in the third richest county in the United States. The house I lived in recently sold for two million dollars. If you saw it you’d think I grew up with money and privilege. No, we had old cars, normal clothes, struggled to pay bills. The house on the Hill was an illusion. My father lived in Sausalito on a houseboat. His neighbors were genuinely wealthy, had nice cars and clothes— They we

I had car keys for the first time in my life. I kept taking them out of my pocket, jingling them in my hand, running my fingers over the metal. The ignition key had six sharp points. I knew it by touch already. I wasn’t trapped at my grandmother's, wasn’t marooned as I had been in high school. The house I grew up in was three miles from the nearest bus stop. You needed a car to get to a job and a job to get a car. For four years I’d been stuck inside that loop. Not anymore. I

This is an outtake from my memoir The Bad Kids. I couldn’t find a good place for it in the book and wasn’t completely happy with the ending. It was a disappointment; I really wanted this chapter to be included, I just couldn’t make it work. Hope you enjoy it. IDD. TEXAS By the time I got to Holly Heights, my shirt was sticking to my back. How was it so hot in April? Even the birds seemed to be hiding from the heat. A car came up behind me as I trudged up the street; it was No

"Time, memory, and the long consequences of living." I do not speak with an English accent because I am pretentious or a pretentious Anglophile. I speak this way because I smoked too much weed when I was a kid. Let me explain. In my memoir The Bad Kids , I tell stories about the misadventures of my friends and me—misadventures fueled by copious amounts of marijuana. By the time I graduated eighth grade, I had stopped smoking. Before starting high school, I reinvented myself a

Dear Monica, I write. This is my calling. If a good story insinuates its way in my head I feel obligated to follow it wherever it leads. My father had a stroke a year ago. Thankfully, he had a nearly full recovery but it got me thinking about the past, about things I’d mostly forgotten, people and events I’d blocked out because the memories were impossible to face. Not because they are awful memories, but because they were beautiful and beauty is fleeting. We touch beauty whe

The Substack is a place you can also join my mailing list. Thanks for being here, IDD. https://open.substack.com/pub/izaakdaviddiggs/p/how-the-bad-kids-came-to-be?utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=web