I Miss You, Charles Pierce

Charles Pierce and I have had a long and one-sided relationship: he doesn’t know I exist, and I’ve read his work voraciously since he covered Boston for the late lamented Phoenix newspaper. And up until very recently, I’ve read his opinions in Esquire several times a week. First thing in the morning, I’ve gone straight to Charles to get his take on the day ahead, just in case I’d missed anything the night before.

And then, a few weeks ago, I stopped. Cold turkey. I dropped Charles, NPR’s Morning Edition and All Things Considered, Nicolle Wallace on MNBC, late-night comedian-observers rehashing the day’s events, even the local news on public and community radio.

The reason is simple: I’m tired of being angry all the time.

It was coming out all over the place, that anger. My publisher returned a draft of my most recent novel to me, requesting revisions because my protagonist had simply become too pissed off. I found myself unable to carry on even normal conversations without the toxicity creeping in. And I was starting to feel very cynical indeed about the future — or lack thereof. I was writing things I couldn’t even recognize myself.

I’ve been cleaning out old files on my computer and realized that what I’ve been writing lately sounds suspiciously familiar, if not in the details, then at least in the tone. My first…