OK, Scottie.... It's YOUR prerogative, as a published author, to despise the immature drivel that the London critics praised without remorse. But it's utterly unfair for you to tantalize the list without offering titles, publishers, and any notable noms-de-plume we ought to know about, in order to judge the worth of your pre-pubescent prose for ourselves. Beyond that, to agree at least with the gist of what you wrote (and also with Will, whose poems apparently grow up and leave home without their American Express Cards...): There's no fun fawning over work once it's done. There's a tiny little part of me that sometimes lays some claim to being a "writer". When I'm wearing that particular hat, I'm all-consumed by whatever I'm writing. For the first few months after I've finished any project, I feel that I know it well enough to repeat it completely in my head. After that, *poof*, I never want to hear anything about it, ever again! I'm on to other projects. I'm working on the best thing that I've ever done. But I DO want to read your juvenalia, Scottie (OR, if you've anything more mature--and less embarassing--you'd like to recommend).... Please tell me where I can find something you've written! ....ditto Camille, Will (just send me the address of the place they're now living), Tim (as we've already discussed....), and Rick (lanky, blonde, left-footed soccer players....... Ingrid Bergman..... hmmmmm.....) Cheers, Paul