Raw, idiom: 14 a. in the natural, uncultivated, or unrefined state: nature in the raw.

Reading about Edna St. Vincent Millay, who was not only a badass poet and shared my birthday (it's a sign) and won the Pulitzer Prize but among other things was supposedly crazy charismatic and wild and bohemian and, in the words of one Julie Burchill from an article I read in the Guardian like 5 years ago, a "lusty Jazz Era dame," all Greenwich Village and cigarettes and poetry and lovers and bobbed hair and anti-establishment deliciousness,

but I have to say, 150 pages in, I have yet to catch but glimpses of this rogue, because so far it's generally Maine and Vassar and overwrought letters to her mother and boooring and I'm trying really hard to stick with it and wait for the dishy stuff to hit, because if the lovers and the addictions and the wildness don't come soon, I'm about to throw this bio with the killer photo on the front out the window and switch to something a little more racy, in spite of my lingering high hopes for achieving literary inspiration by diving into the story of yet another rockstar woman writer with great style and a brooding nature to whom I can fancy myself akin.

That is all.


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