At thirty-one, there came a December afternoon when Susan found herself draped in a stiff wooden chair, staring into her glass of straight whiskey and trying very hard to find a way to kill her husband. The dining room she inhabited was dusty because they hadn’t entertained in a month at least and she just couldn’t manage to give a damn. She couldn’t give a damn about anything anymore. It was all so tedious and she just wanted it to stop, would do anything for it to stop.
Hybristophilia is a concept which has been gaining interest for some time, particularly from a literary standpoint. A hybristophile is best described as some who loves their partner because of a serious crime, often violent in nature. When we think of the word, we think of Myra Hindley, or Ted Bundy’s legion of fan-girls. Crazy women, we think. Lunatics! What woman would write to someone like that, let alone participate!
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Brilliant article I just had to share. Very fascinating story.
We’ve all got dreams, but especially writers. Even if they don’t directly entertain them, or they’ve buried them, or they’re cynics or realists or whatever reason they have–even they have a private space in the very back corner of the brain, home of the What-If. Sometimes they catch the What-If behind them in the mirror while they shave. Sometimes the What-If drifts beside the bus or train window. Sometimes the
In Act II, Chapter 11, if you put on the overture of Wagner’s Tannhäuser right when a particular character does, it perfectly matches the text as background music through the end of the chapter. Pretty pleased to have discovered this in editing. I feel like, novels being literary works and relying so much on description, the ones that enrich us most are ones which cite their sources, as it were.