And we are going to go at it over Joy, I think, since the woman didn't have any faith, she said so herself, and so did her mother. She didn't even believe in her own name.
Why I write? Because I can't not write. Whether or not I write anything worth copy editing, or that should ever be published, is entirely something else.
As for my health, you can tell Quinn I'm just under the weather, or something equally vague.
You should go speak to my last copy editor, a groveling little worm whose name was Millner or Mullner or Millener, something like that. That book was published in a year, as I recall, and I should speak myself a success if he left the publishing industry altogether. What I've done to deserve you is no doubt the most heinous crime of refusing to make a spectacle of myself in public places, and a nuisance of them in private.
I sign my name as I always do, and make no exception, D.B.W.
P.S. With chintz armchairs. P.P.S. I'm sorry, I thought you said something about fighting, and got them confused, perhaps. I'm always damn confused all the time these days.