I’m reading Raymond Chandler again, after far too long a separation. Since finishing Farewell, My Lovely I have: written three four books, read the collected works of Dashiell Hammett, been dumped three four times, and run out of gas on a small displacement motorcycle in the middle of Texas. I should have plenty of writing material.
I’d forgot how much I love this work! But quickly I am overtaken by a dreadful feeling, of the worst sort to an author about to begin a new work in earnest… I am not worthy!
But at the same time, I am given this – permission to do all kinds of wild, fun, and wicked things in my own writing.
And if I get to revel in a shared deep-rooted suspicion of the machinations behind feminine motivations, all the better.
