Men + Myself + God

Tag: self discovery

The Part Where We Move Forward

by P. Braithwaite

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On my thirtieth birthday, I took myself to dinner. After a major minor freak-out about the end of an era, I settled into the idea that aging was probably better than death, and planned to meet friends at a rooftop bar in NYC.

But I wanted to treat myself to a birthday dinner first. Exclusive. Alone. An audience of me. I had a vision of me dressed up, sitting accross from no one, with a glass of Pinot Nior and a half-cooked steak dinner.

Happiness is enjoying a meal alone.

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Field-notes from Hiatus

by P. Braithwaite

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(I dedicate this blog post to my FIRST EVER blogging class students, who have inspired and challenged me to show up in class, in life…and on this blog.)

There are a million reasons I haven’t been blogging: laziness, busyness, preoccupation with binge-watching Downton Abbey. The idea that once you fall out of a routine, the hardest thing is getting back. Or the fleeting thought that I can’t write a blog and a book at the same time (I can). Writer’s block? Blogger’s blog? Beyoncé?

The truth is… Read the rest of this entry »

For JD Salinger…and the rest of us.

by P. Braithwaite

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An artist’s only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and on his own terms, not anyone else’s. – JD Salinger

On a whim, I watched the JD Salinger documentary last night and, when it was over, I cried for a little while. I’m not sure why. There wasn’t one particular scene that did me in. I didn’t realize I was sad until it was over. For better or worse, I’m an American fiction writer, and that makes JD Salinger a friend (in my head).

Plus , I (like every other American teen) discovered my discontent in Holden Caulfield’s angst.

Art is lonely and scary…and sad. And, up until last night, I was harboring the hope that the loneliness goes away, that the loneliness maybe comes from being obscure. I thought the loneliness could be cured with publishing credits or a three book deal. I thought the loneliness went away when The New Yorker thinks your great, or your mentors finally tell you you’re the shit.

The Catcher in the Rye inspired three separate murderers. I can’t imagine how devastating that must be. Read the rest of this entry »