I drifted reluctantly into a medical career, nudged by family
& happenstance: a pursuit highly paid & mind-bendingly boring
- when it wasn't stomach-churningly revolting. And with a bunch
of uniformly unimaginative, uneducated golfers for colleagues.
Then, again purely by chance, a temporary job in a mental hospital.
What larks, Pip, what larks! I never realised work could be such
fun. And so it has remained - for the past fifty, hilarious, engrossing
years.
On the other hand, from the beginning, the longing closest to my heart
was - & remains - to write better than Ernest Miller Hemingway.
How I loathe it, loathe it, loathe it. Every minute at the desk.
It's a fucking crucifixion.
Yet they're both, it goes without saying, of the very highest
importance.
Scotte B.
-
* Unsubscribing? Mail majordomo@roughdraft.org with the message
* UNSUBSCRIBE BANANAFISH
Received on Wed Sep 24 04:10:17 2003
This archive was generated by hypermail 2.1.8 : Sat Dec 06 2003 - 16:07:05 EST