Of Blood and Ketchup
As a writer, I know or associate with other writers. Some are urbane, profane, funny, some think they can write, but couldn’t write a complete sentence if they tried. Some knew they wanted to write from an early age, others fell into it later in life.
Barry Friedman and I are friends, even though we’ve never met. One of those ‘online connections,’ through a series of small coincidences (an email sports thread, Facebook and Charles P. Pierce’s Esquire blog) along with a few other crazies.
Yesterday, June 9, he wrote a piece on Substack with an acquaintance who happens…