I've taken it upon myself to teach myself absolutely everything I need to know in order to be a good writer. So that means I spent the afternoon playing with the dogs in Washington Square Park and browsing Shakespeare and Co. (Which is only the best bookstore EVER.) I picked up The Journals of Sylvia Plath and Angels in America, which I have surprisingly never read. So far it's evident to me that the only two writers in history who really knew what they were doing were Sylvia Plath and Toni Morrison. I read their work and I think to myself, "How could you possibly have known that about me?" That constitutes getting it right in my book. But hope springs eternal. I have high hopes for Nabokov. Lolita's up next after I finish Perestroika. Of course, first I have to finish Jazz, Manic, The Color Purple, and the journals. I am thinking I may have overestimated my abilities a little bit.
I almost forgot. Today in September the 12. Happy Frank Mills day!