Mr. B is one of my dirty little secrets. I’ve actually only, long ago, read a few poems and one short story of his. I’ve also seen two semi-biographical movies about him. None of these made me much of a fan. To me he seemed like nothing but an obnoxious drunk with a gift for putting words together.
Fast forward fifteen or twenty years. I’m now an aspiring writer in the mid-to-late stages of middle-age. I happen across Mr. B’s bio on wikipedia and I fall in love with him. Though he wrote for much of his life, he didn’t quit the world to write full time till he was 49 years old. I’m currently 48, so I have twenty months left to match his example. And Mr. B worked as a sorter for the post office. That makes my job at the insurance company look like a carnival ride.
So I guess I’m more of a fan of Mr. B than I am of his work. Though my mental wish list of what to read next now has his works near the top. It’s kind of like how I like Lady Gaga, but don’t like her music, so I watch her videos with the sound turned down. No, I guess that’s different.
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Talk to me dude