diary / by Edward Mullany


A woman who’d profiled me for a magazine that I’d seen before, in bookstores and on tables in waiting rooms, and places like that, so that I’d been excited to meet her, and in fact had enjoyed the hours we’d spent together, wandering my neighborhood and talking about the themes she said persisted in my work, which I maintain has always been about the same thing, though what that thing is has never been easy to describe, texted me after I’d seen her off, after I’d walked her to the top of a stairwell that leads down into the subway, so she could ride a train back into the city, and told me she’d thought of one more question, though after I’d responded, and had returned to my apartment, so that I’d had time to think about how I’d replied, and to see that it wasn’t what I’d intended, I texted her again, to change or to clarify my answer, which elicited from her a further question, to which I wrote back in such a convoluted way that I decided, having done so, to simply call her and have a conversation on the phone, which I was able to do, though we ending up digressing so far from the subject that I can’t remember now what we said, or if she even used it in what she wrote.