And there you have it:

the inner censor!

(makes no sense now, but when I 'lifted' those words, they came out as white bars only)

I am clearly the queen of tech!

Lifted from these pages...

'...and the attention felt natural, even to me, though we'd rarely gotten it before. That was the thing about attention when it finally came: it never seemed amazing. It felt, if anything, maybe just a little LATE.'

(And you are redeemed; as you must learn to redeem yourself)


And that beautiful, beautiful poem: 

'O Western wind, when wilt thou blow/
That the small rain down can rain?/
Christ, that my love were in my arms/
And I in my bed again!'

From Don Lee's The Collective

From Don Lee’s The Collective:

‘Aristotle called it melancholia, the pre-disposition artists have for depression, prone as they are to being morose and antisocial and self-flagellating and megalomaniacal.  Indeed, without that inclination, no one would probably become an artist in the first place.’

While I recognize all those traits inside myself, the curious truth is that I don't act morose (except when I am, which, actually, when you think about it...in any case, try to stay away from people then), and very rarely anti-social; in fact, especially when I was younger, I had a near-frenetic need for joie de vivre and could not bear to be alone (nor could I bear to be with imbeciles and ninnies – consequently, my treasure hoard of brilliant, funny people is better than most).

Here is the character of Joshua considering suicide:

‘...he had no reason to do it and yet he had every reason.  He had never married, never had children, never even lived with anyone.  He had chosen to steer clear of any distractions or obligations that might interfere with his writing.  He was willing, nay, eager, he said, to make whatever forfeitures were necessary in the pursuit of art.  This was what you had to do if you wanted to be a real writer, he said, if you wanted to strive for greatness, for perfection.  You had to be dedicated.  You had to sacrifice.’

What I felt most deeply were Eric’s relationships with women, the way he was with them and the way they treated him – it was wholly believable, and truly poignant.

Another part that struck ore of true:

‘This was the lesson I’d learned about being friends with artists:  at first, you were honest in your critiques, just like you had been in grad school.  But when you were honest, you’d find it would cause days, weeks of tension and bruised feelings, a rift that would sometimes never fully mend.  You learned what artists really wanted from their friends.  It wasn’t honesty, it wasn’t constructive criticism, it wasn’t the truth.  They’d get the truth soon enough, from dealers, editors, directors, agents, grant-makers, foundations, critics and the public.  What artists really wanted from their friends was simply support, and encouragement, and, if it wasn’t too much of an imposition, unconditional adoration.  About works in progress, they wanted you to tell them:  It’s perfect.  You don’t need to change a thing.  It’s good to go.  About works that had already been released to the world, fait accompli, they wanted you to tell them:  It’s brilliant.  You’re brilliant.  I love it.  I love you.  What was the point of saying anything else?  Yet, this did not prevent us from disparaging our friends’ work behind their backs.’

’They were complete neophytes, and they were good-humored and ebullient about it.  They wrote terrible, cloddish stories and they loved everything that was presented.  They wanted the writers’ group to be supportive and fun, not confrontational – an exercise in boosterism for dabblers and tenderfoots.  They were too busy to read the ms ahead of time, preferring to listen to them in toto the night of the meetings, and they didn’t care for the formality of penning commentary or marginalia.  It was all impromptu, the pronouncements slapdash and facile.  They had nary a criticism for the opening to my novella.  The sessions in the living room were bush league, amateur hour.  The writers’ group was a waste of my time, without utility or challenge.  Until the 3^rd Thursday night, when Esther Xing read her story to us.’

Gotta say, that's a brilliant set-up.

Don Lee is intelligent without being off-putting, he knows himself very well, and is that rare thing: a man vulnerable among women.  Maybe I'm projecting, but I found the character's need to love and be loved almost painful in its urgency; time is passing, it's so fleeting, oh my God (why am I looking at my wrist, as if it had the watch of mortality upon it?) it is, in fact, almost over!

I'll read anything this man writes.