Men + Myself + God

Tag: self discovery

The Part Where We Move Forward

by P. Braithwaite


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

(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


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 »