I didn't choose the pen because I had to or because of
some other ditzy romantic drivel. In retrospect it
was something quite different that drove me. For drones
only that platitude about long hours alone honing
the craft. I was cocksure that "Hello Hemingway" would
be plenty. Such was my insight into humanity that
I needed but unbolt the gate for great stuff to flow,
lavishly. So bold was I at 21 that I pontificated to
my stately classmates that Joyce had ragged it because
nobody read him. Real skill knew how to scent the Sweet
Will where reverence and brilliance bloomed and fused.
"That's what we must do," I told them, emphatically.
No one challenged me. My pileated peers greeted
my pomposity with wanton mystification. But
create something capable of seducing both the
sincere and the savvy "" I had no clue. Still, when
I preened my jeune homme de lettres, oozing
both pensive and vulnerable, the girls would pant
and purr. It was trippy but I hadn't the moxie to
add the score: the pen was dispensable.

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