Many of the books we read influence us in subtle ways that enrich our writing without defining it. Some influence us by opening a window in our minds that wasn't there before. In a nutshell, books make us think.
The recent flap over a romance novel titled For Such a Time whose plot features a concentration camp inmate falling in love with her Nazi captor has aroused the wrath of various critics and readers on grounds that it is too discomfiting and disturbing to have been published.
Instead of being a lovefest or a cyber tea party, #AskELJames turned into a free-for-all where critics of all kinds told James what they thought of her books and her writing. The responses prompted this furious denunciation from Rice, an author I admire.
Each spring bibliophiles and Brando buffs flock to the Tennessee Williams/New Orleans Literary Festival to pay homage to the late great playwright, who penned A Streetcar Named Desire in what he called his "spiritual home."
How many rejection letters can one person take? They are our version of the torn Achilles before the big game, the participation medals and last place finishes. But still, like that flying tomato boy, we go on.
I do some readings from the book in a sultry, serious voice that's getting me some weird mail on Facebook (the background music is creepy and fun too), and my mother, Anne Rice, joins us to pretend that she's actually read the book.
By the time she was 20, Joanna Psoroyannis had arrived in Astoria with only her dreams and a couple of suitcases. She had enrolled at New York University, where she planned to pursue a fine-arts degree.
As much as I'm tempted to join Anne Rice, I am publicly declaring my imperfect love for an imperfect world for which Christ demonstrated perfect love. I am a Christian because
Christ demonstrated love humanity.