Who’s responsible for all those “Writer’s magazines”—Writer, Writer’s Digest, Writer’s Notebook, etc.—clogging the newsstands of Harvard Square? The unsuspecting peruser who comes to these periodicals seeking professional advice will be disappointed to find that they read like a cross between Norman Vincent Peale and Robotics Monthly. The truth is, writing is a rough and lonely...

Let the Buddhists have their mandalas; give the Muslims Mecca; we have The Price Is Right. Five days a week at 11:00 A.M., soaring audio and video levels, howling graphics, and dizzying camera shots herald the appearance of a ministry as fervent as any in the world. The names of the chosen few are called...

Monday, 9: 30 A.M.—Arose after an evening of drinking, soft-shell Jazz and mainstream crabs: oops—dyslexia margarita. My sister’s cleaning lady arrives with an armload of Tito Puente records and an Electrolux without a muffler: I decide to skip coffee and head right to the train station: looking forward to a leisurely trip back to Boston...

“Snap out of it, they’re only a pair of pants. . . . That’s what I keep telling myself. Actually, they’re a pair of linen pleated trousers I bought at Louis last spring. Little did I know what I was getting in for. The more I wear them, the more I love them, the more...

I began my relationship with Harvey visualizing Rolls-Royces and starlets. I ended up as so many writers have—staggering, script in hand, out of this erstwhile mogul’s office straight into the nearest bar; a cut-rate version of Ray Milland in The Lost Weekend. Attend to this cautionary tale, all of you who would avoid the same...