That isn't writing at all, it's typing.
Talent, and genius as well, is like a grain of pearl sand shifting about in the creative mind. A valued tormentor.
Thereโs got to be something wrong with us. To do what we did.
So the days, the last days, blow about in a memory, hazy autumnal, all alike as leaves: until a day unlike any other I've lived
A boy has to peddle his book.
Of course people couldn't help but think I must be a bit of a dyke myself. And of course I am. Everyone is: a bit. So what? That never discouraged a man yet, in fact it seems to goad them on.