By 33 I didn’t even notice them. The notebooks had been piling up for 10 years, with a maniac spurt in production from 1988 to 1991, another in 1993. Since then it’s tailed off. Work preoccupied me, I was dealing more with people since the newspaper’s old boss was out and events there were a bit mixed up. One of my co-workers was a girl I had an affair with. She visited my apartment, and stacked against the wall near my futon there were the notebooks. “What are those?” she asked. “My writing,” I said, and she winced. At that moment I felt like we knew each other: she was looking at a fact of my life.
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