Digitized boredom was still boredom.
The irony was, the writers in the bar had vacated a hotel conference room full of what many writers fear can’t really exist: devoted readers who weren’t themselves aspiring writers, and who savored their work, collected their editions, and were conversant in literary-critical context.
I could write a hundred pages about stone-dependable friendship; this isn’t it.
I’m furious at her now, but writing this as a valentine, I’d like to think: Come back, crazy friend. I’m big enough for you still. I’ve got what it costs to know you, and though I may seem reluctant to spend it all in one place, I’d hate to die with it in my pocket.