I'm currently working on a number of writing projects:
- The 2nd edition of The Allure of Nymphets which has almost doubled in size
- A short story based on a harrowing month long event that I recently experienced
- A small non-fiction volume about an aspect of New York City
- An essay on the striking similarities between monks and pimps
- And a volume of verse
Thus, like the protagonist in Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer, I feel pregnant with books.
As I say, the day began gloriously. It was only this morning that I became conscious again of this physical Paris of which I have been unaware for weeks. Perhaps it is because the book has begun to grow inside me. I am carrying it around with me everywhere. I walk through the streets big with child and the cops escort me across the street. Women get up to offer me their seats. Nobody pushes me rudely anymore. I am pregnant. I waddle awkwardly, my big stomach pressed against the weight of the world.
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