In terms of the pure pleasure of reading words on a page, I can’t think of a better writer. Fluid, luxurious internal narration liberally sprinkled with shimmering metaphors. Attention to even the tiniest slips of syntax or vocabulary that might throw the reader out of the dream.
The Secret History is a flawed novel because the plot is idiocy and the characters a motley assembly of tropes. But ohmyGawd—who cares?
Plot and characters in The Goldfinch are less hackneyed, so better novel.
I kinda wish I wrote like Donna Tartt!
But, you know. Your voice is your voice.
I have absolutely no social events planned for the next four weeks since my fantasy is that I will lock myself in my room and churn out texts on invoice factoring and similarly convoluted financial products like some sort of demented jukebox so that I have a lot of $$$ for the California trip that begins exactly one month from today. My newest client—a big finance site—pays well!
But, of course, that’s unrealistic.
I’ll go mad! I’ll slip into a deep depression: Everybody in the world is having fun except me-e-e-e-e-eeeee!
So, I should plan some NYC time.
And I should be even more obnoxious when hectoring Lois Lane about the Writing Group. It turns out Robert, the earnest young man who teaches the llamas English on alternate weekdays when I’m not teaching the llamas English also writes—
“I’ve completed eight novels,” he told me last week over coffee.
“Are any of them published?”
I can’t imagine that Robert is a particularly good writer.
But, of course, that doesn't matter since the whole purpose of a writing group is really just to provide me with incentive.
I should finish that story about the Ashokan Reservoir deer who metamorphose into humans once every four years so they can vote in municipal elections.
RTT’s 24th birthday today.
This photo was taken when the scientists marched on D.C.
RTT had meconium aspiration when he was born and so, spent his first 10 days in an intensive care nursery, which was a truly horrifying experience, though one he is unlikely ever to remember.
I’ve spent a lifetime studying him to see whether any of that experience’s subconscious residues are bubbling up.
Like I have a theory that people who absolutely believe they were once kidnapped by aliens—they have memories! Christine Blasey Ford-types of memories, but still! Memories!—are actually channeling early childhood hospitalization experiences.
So far, though, RTT stoutly maintains he was never kidnapped by aliens!
In the photo above, RTT is wearing a tee-shirt that says, Science Is Not a Liberal Conspiracy.
I gave it to him.
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