by jkatejohnston

7 December 2014
Dear Max,

I asked Enzo how he feels when I write notes of what he says.

“Uneasy,” he said. I told him that I type up the notes on my computer and asked how he feels about that.

“Better.” I asked if it was okay for other people to read what I type, and he said,

“No.” So this is the last conversation of his that you’ll be reading. I might ask him again in a few months, maybe slip him a few bucks. But it seems like the right thing. I’ve been feeling guilty about putting his conversation online for a while. And anyway, I’ve probably been relying on him too much to keep some life in my writing. I can’t promise that I’ll never put anything about him in my online diary. It’s my life too, and he’s in it. But less, and especially less of what he says. (Of course I’ll still write it, but secretly!)

8 December 2014

Dear Max,

I’m all lost in my writing. Who is this diary for, if I don’t get to show the Enzo parts to anyone? I guess it’s for our own future selves, maybe even for him, the little ingrate.

Teresa said that Max doesn’t count, and I love this idea. Maybe I’ll just go back to the way I was in grad school, mailing you a weekly packet —real paper, uncensored, in the real mail, and Enzo will never know. The thing I absolutely cannot do is leave things out of my diary just because I can’t put them online. Fuck online, this is a diary of record! What happens to the record—that’s for another day.