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.
While Rice says her faith in God remains intact, her repudiation of Christianity is a clarion call, one that should not be written off as a publicity stunt by a bestselling author, or dismissed by the Evangelical establishment.