There was a time that seemed to end in the early 2000s wherein writers could actually, at least some of them, in theory, make a living doing what they love. Now the culture is saturated with TikTok, Twitter, and the constant need for attention, validation, entertainment. Were David Foster Wallace or Christopher Hitchens or, say, George Orwell alive, we’d have some of the best polemical writing of the last 150 years. But, alas, these geniuses are gone. Ditto Dostoevsky, who died 142 years ago. Why read me? Why subscribe? Why even perhaps PAY?
Well. Because I’m a damn writer. It’s in my soul. I’ve tried everything to outrun this gurgling, roiling passion and, as Orwell once said in “Why I Write,” all it did was “outrage my true nature.” So here I am. A writer. In 2023. Amidst a sea of mad entertainment and constant abuse of language, consider helping out a man of letters. Look, I suck at many things, most of them conventional and easy for the masses. I’m good at one thing: Writing.
That’s my pitch. For more political/cultural material check out my other Stack: “Sincere American Writing”:
With everlasting love and gratitude,
Michael Mohr
Aka: The Black Snake of Wounded Vanity
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