But once here, her charisma could not distract him from the lurking threats of his own instability, of critical misunderstanding, of flawed taste, of his recently arrested ability to reason things out. Without warning the words of a recent review floated in front of his eyes like dust:
“Mr. Shirrey heralds the end of a long, and I mean long, trough in modern literature,” it had said. “His current trend, which I hope is indicative of his future plans, shows a rejection of the steroid-injecting, constant-motion, bloated novels his contemporaries have been vomiting up the past couple decades. In Shirrey’s work and in his distinguished editorial eye I find hope that this next generation of literary writers will not be taking the so-called ‘theme-and-idea network’ route that regularly wakes me up in cold sweat, but rather the higher road toward refined, sympathetic, high-quality, detail-filtered fiction. He understands restraint, and that is crucial to a writer’s growth…Might I say, this man is dangerously good. And he has arrived precisely when we needed him most.”
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