Fucking bought them.
How hard was that to say? Kind of hard, actually.
I closed on the deal last Monday, but the truth is I'd written a couple of posts on this before that, and I've written one since. I've erased them all, because they were disingenuous attempts to appear cool about the largest decision of my professional career, and one of the largest decisions of my life—bigger than buying a house (which seemed awfully large at the time), and requiring far more agonizing than I spent deciding whether to get married or have a child.
The decision took place over years and months and days and midnights, and required the help of a surprisingly large number of brilliant people in my life who are ridiculously generous or who enjoy watching a bird swallow a bowling ball or both.
I couldn't figure out how to tell you—or any of my writer pals—or family members, for that matter. And you can't figure out what to tell me.
"It's worth an awful lot of money to be your own boss," a retired newspaper editor friend said.
"You'll have people working for you?" my big sister said. "Yuck!"
I wonder how my own mind and soul will respond long-term to that straight-up bottom-line pressure and the direct temptation of greed. I've always been a little disdainful of the hard-charging entrepreneur. Was all that monomaniacal pushiness really necessary? I guess I'm about to find out.
"Are we going to get more money?" Scout asked.
"Like, as a family?" I asked.
"No—not at first, anyway."
"Then why did you do it?"
"For the future, honey."
Will I ever be as serious a writer as I once was? How serious was I, in the first place?
Shouldn't I have an operation for this, or at least be taking some hormones?
I'm fully alive, I can tell you that much.
On the rest, I'll have to keep you posted, as you'll have to keep me honest.