Richard Donnelly

It’s Fall Semester, the leaves are turning, and Emily and Derek’s classes are in full swing. Without actually touching, the two are closer than ever. They hang out. They share new authors. They discuss and compare profs. They definitely have the same politics, but in this there is no choice. It would be suicide for any MFA candidate, anywhere, to support a Republican. No one’s that dumb.

The writer, Baskin, sat in his cubicle. He felt terrible. He was a novelist, not an analyst. He ought to be wearing a beret and tapping a keyboard in some rent-controlled NYC apartment shared with two sultry women, moody and irritable, also writers.

A big writer is coming to town, and Emily and Derek are waiting. You know those deer hunters who climb a tree with a bow? That’s Emily and Derek.

“​As long as we have anything more to do, we have done nothing.”

I had an Uncle Earl, who one day reached under his bed, looking for something. That’s when the family cat, an evil-tempered, cross-eyed monster of a Siamese, locked onto his hand. He swore, pulled his arm out, and threw the cat through the screened window.

Mrs. McCory wants to meet me at a motel. It’s not what I think it is. It never is.

Writing is illuminated by the author’s personality. Or should be. This is called style.

An AI expert says we’ll soon have artificially intelligent friends. Bots will talk to us, inquire about our day, discuss the news, etc. I have a hard time being against this. I’ll take all the friends I can get.

As a young man, Stan Laurel wanted to quit. He came from a theater family and his father took him aside. He told him son, you can quit. But I’ve watched actors all my life. I don’t know what you have, but you have it.

Not long ago I attended a talk by a well-known author, speaking to a crowd of student writers. It lasted about 45 minutes. The whole time the author wore a sort of inane smile. I hate that.