In the fall of 1996 I was riding the 2/3 train from lower Manhattan to my parents’ apartment in Brooklyn Heights when I saw an old summer camp friend sitting across from me. He was 26 and I was 33. He stood up and hugged me and said, “I’ve been reading your column. It’s really good.” For a few months I had been writing an autobiographical dating diary in New York Press, a free downtown newsweekly known for its rightwing politics and great first-person essays. Dan said he had become a literary agent. “Have you thought about ...
Read the full post >
