diary / by Edward Mullany


My friend who works as a reporter told me the other night, when we were sitting in a bar not far from the offices of the news organization where she is employed, that she wants to quit being a journalist, and just write about whatever, like I do, which made me wonder to myself, is it true, do I only write about whatever, meaning nothing, or anything, though I didn’t give voice to this concern, but instead asked her why she thought she’d be happier if she did so, to which she responded that the issue wasn’t about being happier, but about no longer being unhappy, for there was, she said, a difference, though she also said, after a moment had elapsed, and we’d ordered another round of drinks, so that the bartender had cleared away the glasses that had begun to accumulate in front of us, before returning to us with more, that if the world needed journalists, and she believed it did, then she might as well count herself among them, for she had the aptitude and the temperament to be one, and anyway, she said, there were things in life more important than her own happiness, although, when I asked her what those things were, she only laughed and lifted her hands and said there were too many to enumerate, but that she would try to do so if I was willing to sit with her.