Why do I write?

And why do you write? And why do we all write? And so on.

“All this means nothing to me; here in the quiet of the Hotel Adrogué I spend my days polishing a tentative translation in Quevedo’s style — which I do not propose to publish — of Sir Thomas Browne’s Urne-Buriall.”¹

I apologise in advance.

I’m not planning to offend anyone with my words but one always does well to apologise in advance in this apologetic era of ours. But today I apologise in advance because lately I’ve been testing your patience by going in circles over certain topics. As I said last week, the space in which writers exist is changing; online literary communities that took years to build are shrinking and our readerships are shrinking with them². All of this presents itself like a problem.

The possibility of a reader