Dear Constant Reader,

I’d like to speak with you. But I feel foolish, sitting here in Brooklyn, as I am my only audience.

Should I just talk to myself? “Hi Evan, you’re hungry and cold. Hurry the hell up.”

Or I could address some future multitude: “I hearby set out to preserve my fantasies and criticisms for all eternity.”

At least I won’t start with the dreaded, “I’m writing this blog to <insert overly earnest adverb here> be heard.” (Though what makes that line any worse?)

Just re-read what I wrote. Geez. I’ve replaced “writing with purpose” or even “considering a purpose” with sludge.

But there are important questions behind those first lines. Who am I, Writer? Who am I, Reader? How exposed should I be? for my sake? for yours? When should I leave thoughts unedited because they’re honest? Should I use strikethroughs? What do I want you to read? and what will entice you?

I don’t like writing into an amplifier because I would rather tailor myself for each occasion. When I write a song, each one has its own fantasy character. But you’ll think these words are the definitive version of one Evan Hammer. Well let the contradictions begin.

Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

-Walt Whitman