H Miller

H Miller — failed water-colorist, successful loafer, professional fornicator of words. Born in the wrong century and in the wrong country, I made up for it by inventing a few of my own. I wrote dirty books in Paris, holy books in Big Sur, and travel books about places I never intended to improve. Critics call me obscene; I call myself honest. My real job was living — the writing was just to pay for coffee, wine, and the occasional woman foolish enough to believe I’d settle down.