
This motherfucker doesn't empty itself.
I think one of the worst parts of being a writer is trying to appear normal. Especially at grown-up gatherings such as holidays, dinner parties, gallery openings. I really like the self-check out at the supermarket; cuts down on one more human interaction. What is normal? How would I know? The thing is, I pass. Most of us do. We don’t live in Morocco, or Prague, or wherever the hell Denis Johnson lives. We are among you. Observing, sizing up, spying. Listening in on your conversation and writing down your best lines. We are having an affair with the grad student at the Blue State Cafe, telepathically of course.We are searching for a pen in the bottom of our bag. We are doing our jobs, checking our balances, emptying the dishwasher, again. Why do I feel so desolate?
I want to understand how it is that being by myself with my keyboard is when I feel least alone. Not connected to others, per se. I’ve never understood writers who say they write to help other people. I write to hurt them. Just kidding, sort of. I write to feel normal.
Can anyone relate?
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Congratulations to Temple Grandin’s
Congratulations to Dave Cullen on his Edgar Nomination in the non-fiction category for 



Dear Betsy:
I want to talk about money. Impossible not to quote Samuel Johnson’s, “no man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money.” Friends, I’ve worked with a lot of blockheads. Then there is the new age-y advice to do what you love and the money will follow. If that’s true, then how come no one ever gets paid for eating in front of the tv? Some writers keep their day job and write at dawn. Others forgo regular employment to support their writing, cobbling together a precarious income with no health benefits . It seems to me that whatever you say about money, you must also say something about time.
Fast forward. Today, all sales figures are available to publishers on 


