I'm embarrassed to concede I experienced a Charles Bukowski stage—any Bukowski stage as well as an all-encompassing Bukowski stage in which any and each book I got must be in indistinguishable vein from the late writer or I wouldn't peruse it.
This piece of my life endured a bit too long and, upon reflection, did little to nothing to change my viewpoint or the manner in which I composed. When I began dating the lady who'd turned into my significant other, she opened me up to various inconceivable female scholars who were—for absence of a superior method for putting it—push into my hands to break my interest with testosterone-powered, pointless male creators.
Since grasping female writers, I've reliably returned to these 10 books that tested my reality and at last improved me a man as well as a superior person.
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