The price that great writers pay for cursing convention and soiling the milquetoast ranks, it seems, is braving an inflamed collective that refuses to acknowledge the filth at its feet. At best, such artistic confrontation is met with a wince. At worst, literary banishment. And so writers who present an

I feel like it was fated, like I was meant to post about Saturday’s Writers With Drinks at The Make-Out Room.  Why?  Because a few weeks ago, after deciding I was too bored at the gym to work out for more than five minutes without stimulation that did not involve