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I started this column in January as an experiment, but as anyone who read my previous four installments knows, it, uh, didn’t work. OK, it completely bombed and I didn’t get what I wanted at all.
As it turns out, this was a very lucky, somewhat miraculous break.
Here’s what I wanted: to try some different kinds of writing in order to expand my tiny bouillon cube of literary facility into a boiling broth of bibliographic excellence.
Whew. So, with my sights on genius, I set out with a somewhat stuffy, slightly pontificatory (this should be a word), certainly convoluted review of Mick LaSalle’s “Complicated Women: Sex and Power in Pre-Code Hollywood.”
Because I hadn’t written a column in a while – and not a single one under my new, married-woman name – I was a little nervous.
It also didn’t help that I needed to sound brilliant, like a person whose views on 1930s cinema carry immense currency, huge cow-sized piggy banks full.
My views on 1930s cinema being somewhat narrowly defined by this one book, what I needed was to sound like someone else.
After that first attempt and in a fit of anxious inspiration, I decided even being someone else wasn’t enough distance from the actual salty cube of me.
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