A separation

And so my publishers officially released me. They claim this public journal to be a violation of my contract. This is ironic in that they've been refusing to undertake my memoir project for years. It's strange to think that we can never truly own our histories. I suppose the story of my life now belongs only to you, dear readers.

This is essentially the outcome for which I'd hoped, though now that I find myself without a publisher for the first time in thirty years I'm a bit disoriented. I'm like a brook trout plucked from her silver world, wide-eyed, gills aching for oxygen. What's more, my agent is beginning to lose patience. I've two novel manuscripts in my desk drawer that she hasn't been able to place. "The time is not right," was one of her comments. "Too political and not in your voice," was another. Oddly, I think they're among my best works. Perhaps the world is no longer interested in literary thrillers by an aging, leftist, overweight, overbearing sensualist. Better, I suppose, to allow Richard Clarke, Barbara Boxer and Scooter Libby to write novels. Why does the world need novelists when there are celebrities and politicians?

I've sworn off lamenting the state of literature--Jonathan Franzen and Michael Cunningham both do such a fine job of exemplifying the decline of American Letters. There's no need for me to stand by the side of the road holding a sign announcing the obvious. But still, how I mourn for that long lost Paris of the '20s and her scrappy American ex-pats. Now lovely Paris is burning, and I am filled with black ass.

On another note, Miss Puppycute stopped by the office today with bran muffins. I was touched. She said that last week she noticed how I have been gasping for breath when arriving to class, and that I've been averaging ten minutes late rather than my usual five. Her father (an SBC minister!) suffered a recent heart attack, and the experience attuned her to such things. She suggested I change my eating habits. I protested, making a case for red wine, garlic, foie gras, brisk walks and acrobatic sex. She blushed, but we had a nice chat. When she left my office, Nawaz said that he thought her a "lovely girl."