This question came up in conversation today. Not about me (la vie est dure) but about a young lady around campus who writes and dates. I had this worry a few times while I was in Paris (bon, ca m’arriva parfois). I can’t be the only one who sometimes asks herself:
Would I rather be published in a book/magazine because the editor is my friend or because my writing is good?
It goes both ways.
“Are you sleeping with me because you like me or do you just think I am a good writer?
Such are the troubles of the simultaneously charming, talented and insecure. I never found an answer for myself. But I was always comforted by the thought that the only reason I ever wrote, performed or mimed anything was to sleep people. (Dieu merci, nous avons ces vérités éternelles.)
Just a quick thought, be well.
Coming at the end of the week: A visual deconstruction of the Proust Conference I went to last week.