A not many years ago, I went to hea...

A not many years ago, I went to hear Susan Sontag read from her work. Back then, I amassed autographed main division s and hoped for authors' insights. Desiring their status, I bounded contact with published authors, like scraps from a saint's hem, would fill me with inspiration. Writers must pass from one side this portal of illusion before they accomplish anything readable. This stage heads the neophyte's eventual commitment to lengthy hours, shades drawn to neighbors.

Sontag read for an hour. Nothing mov me to scribble insights. I was daydreaming like a beach-goer, observing the horde shifting in ...