If F. Scott Fitzgerald was alive today and writing, his income would be roughly half a million dollars a year. In his prime writing days, Fitzgerald was pulling in well over ten thousand dollars a year on short stories alone.
Watch Me Go concerns Douglas "Deesh" Sharp, who has managed to stay on the right side of the law by hauling junk for cash. But after he and two friends dispose of a sealed oil drum, Deesh finds himself betrayed, and running from the police.
There's a renegade thrill to Vonnegut's wisdom. Going into the arts as a career can render you into fiscal dreck, but the act of producing art, particularly writing, will endow your interiority with a sense of plenitude, of satisfaction that is hard to replicate.
I first met MB Caschetta more than 20 years ago when she was a student at Vassar College attending a reading I'd been invited to give. In a room filled with bright young lights she stood out: smart, funny and wiser than her years.
Antonya Nelson is her name. If you haven't heard of her yet, that may be because she's still something of a writer's writer with book jackets full of arias of praise from the likes of Michael Chabon, Dave Eggers, David Foster Wallace and Raymond Carver.
I looked toward the source of the irritating sound. A woman, who was busy listening to something on her laptop, earphones clamped to her head, sat in the chair beside me. I hope she has a tissue, I thought. I hope she blows her nose.
New York is constantly documented throughout film, television, literature, Facebook, Twitter, etc. The glitz and glamour that have become pseudonymous with this city are contrasted by dark and tragic tales of the city that once was.