Sixty-three years ago, just before 10:00 a.m. Rudolf Nureyev defected at Le Bourget airport. Two years ago, I went to Paris to start work on my novel Margot, and one year ago, I returned a redrafted version of my novel to an agent. If the past two years have taught me anything, it's that progress is not linear, because that agent never got back to me, and it wouldn't be for another six months and a literary exile to Gdańsk until another did.
Where am I?
Where am I?
Where am I?
Sixty-three years ago, just before 10:00 a.m. Rudolf Nureyev defected at Le Bourget airport. Two years ago, I went to Paris to start work on my novel Margot, and one year ago, I returned a redrafted version of my novel to an agent. If the past two years have taught me anything, it's that progress is not linear, because that agent never got back to me, and it wouldn't be for another six months and a literary exile to Gdańsk until another did.