I have long felt that my work was utterly pointless, and deserved nothing more than the local toaster oven. They're long-winded, horribly philosophical, tasteless, and ultimately, not reading material. I will, of course, try to meet the expectations of those few who choose to read me; I have no interest in losing them, either. However, looking back at my pieces, I wonder to myself: "What's the point?"

J.D. Salinger, the author of the 'Catcher in the Rye,' has gone into solace, last I heard--with absolutely no real trace, or if he's even writing anymore. I won't choose to isolate myself, of course, but the thought never strays far from my mind. What is the really the point of continuing to write if people are hardly constructive of what I post here? It doesn't even have to be here--it could be the people who publish their works in the 'New Yorker' not really getting a feasible response from the critics as far as the style, plot, or anything goes (as if I have a style).

I will, despite all of this self-deprecation and doubt, continue to write.

I hope.