Writer's Diary
8/29/24
My sister suggests we start writing letters again; when we were younger, especially between 18-24ish, we wrote regularly. Then, letters tailed off. I used to write so many letters in fact, but nobody really keeps up a correspondence anymore; and I struggle to too—which is deeply disappointing.
I despair to write less for myself, for nothing—and to become entirely a literary mercenary, tied to subscriber and viewer numbers.1
Irony renders fate legible.
I think writers and observers of the literary scene outside of New York can’t possibly understand how much the industry is driven by private hearsay and in-network