A portrait of an artist which uses a flat to medium to tell the story of Crowley, dedicated and undeviating in his desire to write. On the publication of his fifth novel which is no more likely to sell than its predecessors, Dillard is as he faces the cold contempt of his wife, Claire- ""You've got a sickness called it""; a bland brush-off by his publisher; the more practical pep-talk from a brother-in-law who offers him a job in industry. On the other hand, there's Kate- a painter and in love with a young homosexual who reassures him; Bernie, a satellite, who wants to imitate him; and Mr. Groseclose, an elderly actor- who had refused to compromise for survival or success. And the curtain fails on Dillard's worn acceptance of his wife's that he must give up writing, or his family, only to suggest that he can ever do so... The lonely world of the artist, the integrity which brings its inner but no recognizable returns, this is reflected with a harsh truth which does not elicit- where it should- compassion.