My life’s been a mess ever since I started this magazine. Right now I’m staring at a coffee table strewn with empty cans, paper towels, and two plates of half-finished pizza. To map my apartment is to draw jagged lines through fields of debris—wire racks, envelopes, flatplans, and all the other junk of my enterprise.
Before winter arrives, I’ll have to push all that cardboard away from the radiators. I was damned lucky the floor didn’t cave in when I stacked thousands of copies of the debut waist-high. I don’t know the exact weight, but when the forklift operator loaded the first pallet onto my truck, the bed sank to the wheels and he cried out, “Sucker’s heavy!” with the alarming ring of a liability disclaimer.
I’ve gained weight. I’ve lost money. I’ve missed doctors’ appointments. I haven’t finished a book since January. But, oh, the brand, the brand! The brand is growing—so everything’s fine.
I’ve never been in such intimate contact with what my dad always called The Machine. This …
