Sometimes I think that all writing is an attempt not to disappear, not in the sense of being immortalized, but in the act itself, the actual writing. That every pen-stroke or key-stroke is a way of refusing to be erased, a way of making sure you’re still there.
I used to write in the crawl space beneath the stairs when I was 10. I had a diary with a thin gold rule around the edges and a lock that a butterfly could pick. In there I confessed my hatred for my best friend, the ongoing torment from my older sister, my great love of hot dogs. When I think of myself down there, the blanket and pillow I purloined from the guest room, the shadeless lamp, I could really cry. Why did I need that makeshift bunker? What was I so desperate to express and why did I have to hide it?
I had no idea that I would grow up and help countless writers out of their bunkers, help them with their books, see the light of day. Though I have a few writers with a positive outlook, I’ve mostly observed that writing comes out of darkness, that writing seeks light. I think that’s what I was doing in my bunker when I first found words. I would love to hear from other writers who wrote as children or teens and what they recall of their first efforts.
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I did something really radical over this long holiday weekend: I took off. And I read for pleasure. Pleasure. No manuscripts. Just. What. I. Wanted. To. Read. I read Nicholson Baker’s The Anthologist, which my best friend from graduate school gave me. If you give a fig about poetry, don’t miss this book. It’s dishy and funny and all too true about the bitch-fest aka the world of poetry. It’s terrifically entertaining and sad and sweet. Really, I laughed my ass off, but then again I’m always up for a good discussion of trochaic verse.
Also, I’m a die-hard Philip Roth fan. ( I can’t stand it when people say they hate Roth because he’s misogynist. That’s precisely why I read him, among other things. That said, were you to reject him on those grounds, this book would give you ample reason, and yes I’m talking about the strap on dildo three-way with two young women and our aging protagonist.) Look, not one of his better novels (should have been packaged with his last two as a collection of three novellas if you ask me, which no one is), but there was still one thing I loved about it and am glad I read it because I’ll remember it my whole life.
When I was struggling with depression in my twenties, there was nothing I hated more than hearing people wish one another a happy holiday. In the first place, it was fairly certain that I would wind up in emotional tatters during some part of the holiday weekend with my family. And second, the isolation of depression is only heightened when the expectation (sham?) of loving togetherness is intensified at holiday time.
The great paradox of my life as an agent is that I am able to walk through fire for my clients while I can barely ask for anything for myself. 
