Writing seems so easy at times. Just put your experiences on paper, maybe change a few things to make it more interesting and, boom, you have a novel.

Simple, right?

Well, it seems to be for someone like Charles Bukowski, author of the 1971 novel “Post Office,” which I recently finished. The book follows the travails of Henry Chinaski, a man who enjoys his drinks, difficult women and trips to the race track and only seems to work at the post office to fund those pursuits. From all accounts, Bukowski pretty much based the character on his own experiences.

Bukowski already had accomplished a lot as a writer before he wrote this book so I’m interested now to go read some of this others works. I love the story that the owner of the publishing company “offered Bukowski 100 dollars per month for life on condition that Bukowski would quit working for the post office and write full time. He agreed and ‘Post Office’ was written within a month.”

Like I said, it’s always that easy, right?

Jokes about the process aside, the quick process shows through in a positive way because the simple and profane writing style pulls you right into Cinaski’s world. I imagined myself sitting a few barstools away from the protagonist as he told his stories to a friend. You cannot believe some of what he says, but he also doesn’t seem like he’s embellishing because of the honesty and conviction in his voice.

The more you listen, you wish you could live his life for a couple of days, but simultaneously pity him for not breaking free from a cycle of destructive behavior. The writing may seem easy, but the life he had to live to entertain us certainly wasn’t. Bukowski manages to entertain the reader without making his fictional alter-ego completely unsympathetic. You want to buy the guy a beer … but only one because he doesn’t need more than that.

On a separate note, I read this book on my Kindle and something strange happened. The percentage meter didn’t really seem to match the pace of the story. As I approached 50 percent, I wondered how Bukowski could sustain the narrative for much longer. Turns out I was right – the file actually contained two copies of the book so I reached the ending when the meter hit 50 percent.