Theft by Finding: Diaries 1977-2002

by David Sedaris

That’s the thing with a diary, though. In order to record your life, you sort of need to live it. Not at your desk, but beyond it. Out in the world where it’s so beautiful and complex and painful that sometimes you just need to sit down and write about it.

The New Yorker is taking the Shouts and Murmurs piece I wrote for Valentine’s Day. Chris sent the galleys by messenger, and, reading them over, I noticed four repetitions of the phrase “we’re hoping.” I pointed this out on the phone yesterday and he said, “Man, you’re like a self-cleaning oven!”