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 »