This Substack was just pages taken from my old notebooks. I say “was” because I’ve since unpublished all posts. I enjoyed sharing them but things got a little parasocial. It’s perhaps inevitable when you’re sharing secrets, especially handwritten ones.
If you were unimpressed with my journal entries from twenty years ago, you are free to hand-write me a letter of complaint.
Totally unrelated, I’m an essayist. Please avail yourself of my brilliant published work and not just this dead Substack! Or don’t. Half the point of all this was to chaotically undermine my good reputation, possibly as a person, definitely as a literary writer. Mission accomplished.
(Should it ever come to pass that handwriting becomes a popular format on the internet, let me know and I’ll come back here and republish. I swear that when literacy finally dies out, the ultimate cool anachronism will be handwritten teenage diaries. I will be on that shit like ink on paper.)
