I’m reading the published diaries of a writer whose work I love dearly.
Twelve years in, he’s not once written an entry on my birthday. I mention this to my wife.
“It’s because he hates you,” she says.
I’m reading the published diaries of a writer whose work I love dearly.
Twelve years in, he’s not once written an entry on my birthday. I mention this to my wife.
“It’s because he hates you,” she says.
Trev and Simon don’t hate you.
I’d love to read their diary.