Isn't it pathetic there are writers incapable of self-reflection who boast THEY DO NOT WRITE FOR MONEY and then expect their books to sell. I mean then you write for what?? Brushing your teeth with capacitors? Or some kind of erection you get from saying it? But no - we're supposed to understand your hidden inheritance; that fixed deposit and apartment your parents left your bleeding butt. Old wealth. I can smell the prestige. like Chanel or something. That such self-effacing greatnesses live among ussses makes me cry. Sitting on all that wealth and dressing like one of us; spending money on books instead of flashinesses.
In other news I'm having some fun curating at Pigmy - which get us to another thing. I'm doing a retrospective of some of my blog posting that never got posted because it piled up in .txts instead.