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432 pages, Kindle Edition
First published November 3, 2015
If two people could make each other smile and laugh and forget all the pain and darkness in the world for a moment, why should we feel ashamed of it?
If you're really an artist, I thought, you'll find a way to make art however you can, like Bukowski said. With half your body gone. With soot and a cave wall. With your own blood.





Leah Raeder's CAMGIRL, about a talented young artist, struggling to make ends meet after a series of catastrophic setbacks, who forges a deep connection with a mysterious client who wants her camgirl performances to himself and who forces her to reconnect with the demons of her past.




I walked from the patio down to the sea, the whispery sweep of waves like jazz brush drumming. Strands of tinsel moonlight floated on the water. The anxiety and unease in me all gathered into an ache at my elbow and I felt as if I could fire bullets from it, or set it on fire, or rip it out of the socket. Wasn’t sure whether I wanted the badness out or if the badness could stay as long as I escaped. Pain makes a body a prison, the same way desire does.

"So, what is art? We take reality, and we filter it through our eyes and minds and hands, and remake it. What comes out is both more and less true than what went in. It illuminates some part of reality just as it obscures other parts. Art is an imperfect impression of the world. As the self is an imperfect impression of the soul."



"You know what I learned in all these months? That I built my whole fucking life around you. My entire adult life. Five years. I'm totally lost on my own. You know how terrifying it is, to be that dependent on someone?"

"Onlookers see the finished result, polished and prettified, but all the artist remembers is the labor. The grueling, gloriously bloody becoming."
"Your best friend is your partner, right? The person you've lived with going on five years. Shared your life with. Shared everything with. Matching tattoos, an encyclopedia full of inside jokes, a scrapbook stuffed with memories. The person whose heart you know better than your own."



"Frankie, with her master's degree and scalpel blade of a brain, who took no shame cashing in on her looks till she could do what she really loved: run her own business.
If she didn't feel embarrassed, why should I?"

It was easier, picking a side. Not fighting to be recognized as a fluid, nuanced individual, but simply accepting a premade label, a prefab identity.

"Azúl," I said, kneeling behind her. "Azúl infinito."

Maybe we needed to break a little, so we could put ourselves back together more beautifully than before.


"All art comes from pain."

"My love is savage and rapacious. It isn't content to touch. It wants to be inside, crawl into the marrow, caress each vein until the cells are all mixed up and there is no you and me anymore, no secrets or shadows sliding between our skin. Only this endless devouring of each other."
"If two people could make each other smile and laugh and forget all the pain and darkness in the world for a moment, why should we feel ashamed of it?"

What a strange world where we pay people to listen to our problems, and pay them to fuck themselves while we watch, and pay them to save us.
You pretend everything’s fine. Even when you feel heavier every day, when the air smothers like a pall. When you feel something pulling you under but can’t escape, because it’s pulling from the inside.
