Sorry, Offering To Work For Free Is A Really Bad Strategy (But Not For The Reasons You Think)
Willing to work for free to prove yourself is a great little distinction. But it’s worthless by itself.
The Moment You Realize You Are A Writer
Today was the day I realized that not everyone feels this way about writing. Not everyone wrote stories on colored construction paper when they were little and stapled the sides to make their own “book’. Not everyone kept journals in high school only to fill them with teenage angst, heartbreak, growing pains, and pure disdain towards parents.
A 26-Year-Old’s Diary Entries From Mid-April, 1978
I have this terrible fear of hurting Ronna. It scares me, her feelings for me. I do love her, but this afternoon, I was in Washington Square Park, reliving 1969, and looking at boys.
A 26-Year-Old’s Diary Entries From Mid-September, 1977
I like being playful, and I think it’s important not to be afraid to look silly. I don’t have to act a certain way because I’m 26; I don’t see why I can’t behave as though I’m 16.
A 25-Year-Old’s Diary Entries From Early January, 1977
It’s 1977 – God, that sounds so strange and future-y . . . This afternoon Elihu called and said, “I bet you’re saying, like everyone else, ‘I sure hope this year is better than the last one.’”
A 25-Year-Old’s Diary Entries From Late November, 1976
Today, while waiting for the faculty elevator after lunch, the thought passed through my mind: “These are the good years.”
A 25-Year-Old’s Diary Entries From Early November, 1976
At 1:30 AM, I shut off the TV set, with the election still in doubt. Carter was very close to an electoral majority, but the Western states were going heavily for Ford.
A 25-Year-Old’s Diary Entries From Late August, 1976
Fahey’s genius lies in his going on so long that you imagine that he’s been playing that guitar your entire life. I actually hoped that I could hear his music while sitting there in The Bottom Line forever.
A 24-Year-Old’s Diary Entries From Early April, 1976
On the way to The Bagel, I saw an old drunk puking on Sixth Avenue, and on the way back to my car I saw the same drunk, recovered, jauntily lighting up a cigar in a doorway on Carmine Street.
A 24-Year-Old’s Diary Entries From Early March, 1976
If someone had told me seven, five – even two years ago – that life could be this good, I wouldn’t have believed them.
