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"  Chiarella--Congrats on the new post but, frankly, fuck this. I can&amp;#039;t help but think of Fitzgerald who must have jotted on an Esquire napkin once--maybe in &amp;#039;35 he visited the offices when Arnold Gingrich was in your shoes, while Zelda, locked away at Sheppard Pratt practiced billiards or bowling or began to press her wrists together &amp;amp;amp; talk to God.  What did Fitzgerald write?--The bitter question. Zelda burning her clothes in the Ambassador Hotel bungalow? A confession about letting the clock run long in the Hemingway-Callaghan fight to see Callaghan take the bull down? Something about emotional bankruptcy--the mortgaged soul? I say he burrowed back to his father walking home between two stiff banks of stubborn snow, fired from Procter &amp;amp;amp; Gamble, how a dead man can walk &amp;amp;amp; talk &amp;amp;amp; move amid the furniture--at once here, breathing, &amp;amp;amp; gone. I&amp;#039;m an American writer, a woman hauling my family around on my back. I&amp;#039;m 36 &amp;amp;amp; have signed for my 13th book &amp;amp;amp; day after day, the indelible feeling is FAILURE. I fail my family--not enough money--&amp;amp;amp; I fail my art to try to make enough money. I&amp;#039;ve already become a whore for my profession--I&amp;#039;ve already been REDUCED &amp;amp;amp; REDUCED &amp;amp;amp; now you ask me to fit on a cocktail NAPKIN? You say you&amp;#039;ll &amp;quot;pay a little&amp;quot; for the pieces you use &amp;amp;amp; maybe even throw in a free tumbler? Fuck your money &amp;amp;amp; your free tumbler. You should have gotten me when I was younger, less angry, before I thought out how we kill off our writers, sending them to Schwab&amp;#039;s Drug Store for a heart attack, burning them up on the top floor of the Highland Hospital.  This is no game.  I only want to find a way to write &amp;amp;amp; survive. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.esquire.com/entertainment/books/a2167/esq0207baggott/>