Another raining, miserable day. Enough gray outside to wash away all the promises of springtime yesterday's sunshine offered.
I came across a wonderful quote from Don DeLillo, in a letter written in 1995.
"The novel is different. ... We die indoors, and alone, and I don't mean to sound overdramatic, but you know what I'm talking about."He's right, of course, brilliantly so.
This time last year I was in Florida, attempting to make good on my claim that I'd written a novel. Which, over the course of last spring, turned into something that should be publishable. If I can find time in between Property and Contracts and CARC and BJIL and suchforth to properly edit the thing.
In one of those CDO-sponsored mock interviews, the lawyer asked me what she couldn't learn about me from my resume. I told her I was a novelist. Her reaction surprised me. Ed had told me to keep my writing secret from the other lawyers, that they didn't respect novelists. The interviewer was impressed, not dismayed. She suggested it be put on my resume, as something to distinguish me from the crowd.
It's a thought.
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