Henry thinking—holy fuck come on people! Nobody reading his stories @ Busted on Empty anymore—
Henry’s last two stories only eighty hits between them, he was averaging two hundred hits per story before—he didn't know why people were losing interest in his work.
Why keep writing?—There was nothing in it for him.
Henry old, his body ached inside and out, weedy and weak-kneed, everyday a endeavor.
Booze and dope a temporary fix. Henry— a life of misdirected addictions, he was fragile and bedazzled.
Nothing he loved worked anymore, the magic evaporated.
Henry wasn’t grousing, this self-depreciating expose— an exercise in literary method.
Literary method a phrase he invented a few seconds ago, it was his method of checking his wits.
His work neither apropos or spot-on.
Henry didn’t write for money or glory, none of that for him— he wrote because he wanted to be read.
Writing is its own reward.
– Henry Miller