Real writers they were, I think. One of them, anyway. I thought at first they might be the ghosts of D.H. Lawrence and Frieda. Walking across the courthouse green, holding hands. Dressed old fashioned European: he in an Irish flat cap and tweed jacket, she with long brown hair and a brown pants suit. I walked around the circle and they came out just behind me, talking earnestly. I heard only him: Well, you need the entire manuscript...(mumble mumble). I didnt hear her, but she undoubtedly said something. Him again: For example, you can take...you would look at... They had let me get too far ahead of them to hear anything else. A writer and his editor or agent, maybe? Which was the writer, he or she? This is not The Village or Humboldt Park or Haight Ashbury. Its Gloucester, Virginia, for chrissakes. We catch fish here and plot the Souths rahhhhhhzing agin. We dont write litrachure. We dont wear tweed or flat caps, or use words like manuscript. What in hells going on here? Global warming? The Apocalypse? Obama? Didnt Max Perkins die, like they said? Happy New Year.
Posted on: Sat, 27 Dec 2014 21:16:14 +0000
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