On the Tortured Artist.

Looking back over my novel, I realize that what I had thought to be erratic and barely pardonable breaks in structure and form were purely imagined. I merely remembered them by their associations with sudden changes in my life. Yet the text itself is consistently Awesome.

Sometimes I wonder if others will understand my work. There is no way of knowing, and so I must be self-sufficient. Yet I remember how miraculous it is that I can relate to my friends about the subtlest of things as though they were entirely obvious, and I feel hopeful.

Dm.A.A.