What is odd about writing is that ultimately one writes for oneself: some way to explain the world and oneself to oneself and the world. Yet, there is an underlying desire, narcissistic, for someone else to read what one writes. Listen to me, the writer screams into the void. I exist. As if a reader’s response justifies, like a typesetter, or a bat, the world one writes into. I pretend a disdain: who really cares who reads my writing, yet I obsess over who could be reading. Befuddled by the number of visitors to my blog, the growth over the years: who are these people? Lisa pointed out that no writer ever knows who is reading the work; sales (or hits ) are just numbers. I read once in one of his biographies that William Carlos Williams at a reading was given one of his books to sign. The book was from an edition that had come out decades before the reading. He was overwhelmed that someone had actually bought his work decades before. He did not have a copy of it anymore, so he tried to buy it. What is the force that drives a writer to find his audience? Who am I talking to?