Dear littérateurs,

This week my Serious Literary Diary turned two years old. To celebrate, I have carefully handpicked a selection of my ‘Greatest Hits’ – my most serious and literary diary entries from the last two years.

If you enjoy my work, please do share it. And if you would consider showing your support by becoming a paid littérateur, it would mean a great deal to me. As one of my most loyal and discerning readers, you will receive exclusive posts, access to the full diary archive, and a free download of my debut book of stories and poems.

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30 July 2024:

Today somebody asked me what I do. I told her I am a writer. She then immediately asked if I have ‘had anything published’. I find this question deeply distasteful. As a Serious Literary Author, I am unconcerned with such trifling concepts as ‘publication’, or ‘readers’. Some of my best work exists only in my notebook, never to be read by anybody. This is writing at its most pure. Private and honest, unspoiled by outside eyes. However, seeing as she asked, I told her yes, my writing has in fact been published on several websites including Amazon, eBay and Tripadvisor.

3 August 2024:

Today I was asked why I write. I realised I did not have an answer prepared for this question. Writing is just what I do. It is all I know. But since so many authors have written powerful quotes explaining why they write, I decided the time had come for me to write my own. A short literary manifesto. My writerly raison d’être. So I sat down at my desk, picked up my pen and wrote:

Why do I write? The answer is simple. If you cut me, I bleed ink. My skin is parchment. My eyes are full stops. My ears are parentheses. My hairs are hyphens. My toes are en-dashes. My fingers are em-dashes. My cuticles are commas. My colon is a colon.

I don’t wish to blow my own trombone, but I think this might be one of the best ‘Why I write’ quotes ever written.

2 September 2024:

Today I visited the doctor. I have been partially deaf in my left ear since having a hot bath on Saturday. I immediately Googled my symptoms and discovered that I was suffering from Sudden Sensorineural Hearing Loss (SSHL), most likely brought on by an acoustic neuroma (also known as a vestibular schwannoma) – essentially a brain tumour affecting the auditory nerve. As I explained this to my doctor this morning, I could tell he was impressed. How refreshing it must be for a patient to arrive at his appointment having researched and diagnosed his condition in advance. Whereas most patients probably turn up completely unprepared, thus relying entirely on the doctor to do all of the work, this is simply not in my nature. As an author, it is my duty to be well-read, hence why I spent the weekend comprehensively devouring literature about my condition on medical websites such as WebMD and Reddit. After hearing my diagnosis (and taking a token look inside my ear), the doctor prescribed me some ear wax removal drops and told me to come back to see him if the symptoms didn’t go away. I knew what he was really saying. What he was really saying was, ‘While your own diagnosis is clearly correct, I must be seen to give you these drops in order to show that we have ruled out a more trivial ailment. Sorry; that’s bureaucracy for you. When the drops don’t work (and they won’t), come back and see me in a couple of days and we will commence proper treatment, starting with an MRI scan.’ It is all rather worrying.

23 September 2024:

Today I received a comment criticising the quality of my writing. It didn’t bother me at all. I have nothing but confidence in my writerly abilities. And besides, as a Serious Literary Author, I have more important things to worry about than the opinions of strangers online. Indeed, I didn’t even give it a second thought. In fact, I didn’t even give it a first thought – that’s how utterly unmoved I was by the whole thing. When I clicked on his profile, it was immediately clear to me that he was, as young people might say, a ‘loser’. His follower count may have been over five times higher than my own, but it was no doubt mostly comprised of idiots and bots, whereas my own followers are all discerning littérateurs. His profile picture was a simple ‘selfie’, clearly taken with the inferior front camera rather than the rear. He was actually quite attractive, but in a rather obvious way, with good skin, hair and eyes. I was able to find his profile on various other online platforms, and after browsing all of the photos, managed to put together a fairly complete picture of where he lived. On arriving outside his house, I was immediately struck by how tackily large it was, and the same was true of the two Range Rovers sitting outside. Glancing through the window, I could see him sitting across from his wife, who was also very attractive, with a very nice face – again, all rather obvious. After clinking their wine glasses, they began tucking into a homemade spaghetti bolognese that clearly contained too much tomato sauce. This man had no taste or class and was in no position to pass any kind of judgement on my writing, let alone receive an ounce of my mental energy, I chuckled to myself on the train home.

28 September 2024:

Today I thought of an idea for a novel. I was delighted. I have been trying for a story for months, and finally one had arrived. I called my close friends and family to share the good news. I couldn’t believe their response. There were no tears of joy; not even a single ‘congratulations’. The best most could muster was a feeble ‘cool’ or ‘that’s great’. I was shocked and appalled. But the more I thought about it, the more I realised this is a problem that runs deep in our society. Where is the section for expecting authors in greeting card shops? Where is the paid writernity leave? The genre reveal parties? All too often, the rights and needs of authors are forgotten and ignored.

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7 October 2024:

Today I noticed a typo in an email after sending it to multiple recipients. I was devastated. As a Serious Literary Author (SLA), it is my duty to uphold the highest writerly standards in all forms of communication. But somehow, a mistyped word had managed to evade my Serious Literary Proofreading Process (SLPP).

As I saw it, I had three options. The first was to immediately go to the recipients’ homes and apprehend the email on their computers. But since they lived across the country, and two lived abroad, this did not seem particularly viable. The second option was to remotely hack into their computers, but this would require me to learn how to hack. In the end, I decided I had no choice but to follow up my email with another email in which I acknowledged the typo and apologised. This was an extremely painful message to write, but I knew, deep down in my colon, that by taking responsibility for my mistake, I would only grow as a writer.

***

I have noticed a typo in my follow-up email. I am heartbroken. To make one typo may be regarded as a misfortune; to make two looks like carelessness. I have now sent a third email to the recipients with a video attached in which I beg forgiveness and promise, through tears, that nothing like this will ever, ever happen agian.

***

I have just noticed a typo in the passage above. I am shattered. To make two typos looks like carelessness; to make three suggests a sudden neurodegenerative disease. I have made an urgent appointment with my doctor for this afternoon. As always, I have fully researched my condition online, which I know he appreciates. On this occasion, I have diagnosed myself with Dutch Elm Disease (DED).

***

Just saw doctor. Apparently DED only affects trees.

11 October 2024:

Today somebody asked if I have considered turning my diary into a podcast. I was shocked and appalled. As a Serious Literary Author, I have no time for podcasts. And besides, the problem with podcasts is that absolutely everybody has an idea for one. It is an epidemic. It is impossible to go for a coffee with an acquaintance these days without being forced to listen to their idea for a podcast. In fact, one could probably create a podcast entirely about peoples’ ideas for podcasts! This is not an idea for a podcast.

21 October 2024:

Today I accidentally Googled myself. I was about to close the window when I noticed that I was not the first result for my own name. Above me was Daniel Piper Motor Services, a vehicle repair shop in Suffolk. I immediately telephoned the garage and asked to speak to Mr. Piper, who I then politely but firmly encouraged to consider changing his name. The vast majority of people Googling our name, I explained, would be looking for one thing: Serious Literary Writing. Indeed, literature is simply more useful and important to the general public than vehicle repairs. He said that if I was so concerned, I should change my name. I couldn’t believe it. I told him that as a Serious Literary Author, my name is sacrosanct. He then said, ‘Hello, Sacrosanct’. I smiled, realising I was not talking to a writer, then helpfully explained that the word sacrosanct is in fact an adjective, which means I was using it to describe my name; to denote that my name is precious. He then said, ‘Hello, Precious’. It was at this point that I realised he was lampooning me. Furious, I immediately set off to make my demands in person. Unfortunately, just before I arrived, my car broke down.

22 October 2024:

Today I accidentally misspoke while ordering a coffee at my local cafe. Whereas I normally order an oat flat white, today I fancied almond milk instead. When I reached the counter, I asked the barista for an ‘oat flat white with almond milk’. She hesitated, and I immediately realised my mistake. I was mortified. As a Serious Literary Author, it is my duty to display a superior command of the English language. To stumble over my words suggests Writerly Weakness, which I cannot abide. Therefore, I had no choice but to commit to my error. The barista asked if I had meant an oat flat white or a flat white with almond milk, and I said no, I wanted an oat flat white with almond milk. A couple of minutes later, she warily handed me my two-milk coffee. ‘Perfect,’ I said, taking a sip of the revolting drink. I then turned and strolled towards the exit. As I reached the door, a second barista said, ‘Enjoy your coffee,’ and I accidentally replied, ‘You too.’ I then had no choice but to turn around and order a coffee for him.

25 October 2024:

Today I visited my local bookshop. While queuing to pay, I heard the assistant say ‘Good choice’ as she scanned a book. I leaned forward to see what the customer had chosen. It was the latest novel by Mainstream Millennial Author Sally Rooney. She then said ‘Good choice’ to the next customer, who had chosen the latest novel by TikTok Author Colleen Hoover. I couldn’t help but chuckle. If she approved of these Unserious Literary Selections, she would surely be delighted by mine. After all, as a Serious Literary Author, I only ever purchase quality literature by fellow SLAs. When it was finally my turn, I handed her a copy of Penguin Classics’ new complete translation of Kafka’s diaries, and awaited her response. She scanned it silently, and said nothing as she placed it in a paper bag and handed it back to me. I gave her a Knowing Literary Smile. Clearly she was so overwhelmed by the sublimity of my choice that she was unable to process it in the moment. I imagine she will experience Delayed Onset Literary Euphoria at some point this evening.

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As the above story brilliantly demonstrates, it takes a lot for me to make a purchase. It is, as Gen Zee might say, a ‘big deal’. Being a staunch anti-capitalist, I am naturally compelled against materialism. I will only ever purchase truly essential items.

Aside from food, coffee and candles, the only things I have bought this month are a pair of corduroy shorts, a new leather watch strap (for evening use), Aesop Resurrection Aromatique Hand Balm, Aesop Cedar & Citrus lip balm, two leather satchels, two fountain pens (one for each satchel), two iPad chargers (one for each satchel), a silver hip flask, an antique map of Paris, a leather notebook and a paper notebook (because the leather one is too nice to use). It is this kind of restraint that allows me to live truly in the moment, unburdened by the insidious pull of consumerism.

Alas, consumerism is one of the defining features, if not the defining feature, of the twenty-first century. And it is only getting worse. In the digital age, the common man is expected to pay not just for physical items, but intangible ones too. Subscriptions are everywhere. Film, television and music platforms ask us to pay monthly for their incorporeal wares. Some authors have even started asking readers to pay for their writing.

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I am similarly discerning when it comes to subscriptions. Whereas many people frivolously subscribe to multiple platforms for a single category such as television, I limit my subscriptions to just one per category: film, television, music, newspaper, literary journal, meditation app, coffee beans, wine, cheese, fountain pen ink, and my own Substack newsletter.

A Serious Literary Author must never bow to the market economy. We must uphold values of sufficiency and frugality. Below are some examples of my own daily acts of resistance:

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Why is childhood so important to a Serious Literary Author? Well, as Julie Garland says in The Wizards of Oz, “It’s always best to start at the beginning”. Our childhood shapes us. It moulds us. It makes us who we are. In fact, I have a pioneering theory, which I am considering pitching to mental health researchers and therapists, that many of our struggles in adulthood are actually influenced by events from childhood.

I suspect that my ability to produce such brilliant Serious Literature stems from several challenging episodes from my formative years. Indeed, my early life is a story of survival, one that begins on the day that I was born. I was born five weeks premature, and emerged far below the average size of a baby. I was so small that my mother dressed me in dolls’ clothes. But I survived.

Five years later, In my first ever PE lesson, Mr Burton told the class he wanted to see us all, one by one, complete a forward roll. I had never even attempted a forward roll. When it was my turn, I walked up to the mat, leaned forward and fell on my face. Everybody laughed. But I survived.

I had my first fight at the age of eleven. A boy called Matthew Chadburn pushed me into the school’s brand new interactive whiteboard. It wouldn’t turn on afterwards, and I was given detention even though it wasn’t my fault. But I survived.

At age fourteen I was stung by a jellyfish while swimming in the sea in Barcelona. Panicking, I ran into a nearby bar and asked the bartender what to do. He pointed at my arm then pointed at the toilet. I rushed into the toilet and urinated down my arm. When I returned he told me he was pointing at a bottle of vinegar on the table by the toilets. On realising what I had done, he laughed. But I survived.

Each of these incidents left scars on my body and, more importantly, scars on my brain. (I am referring to emotional scars, not brain damage.) And it is these scars that have made me into the Serious Literary Author and adult I am today.

I believe that many of my contemporary struggles, such as my fear of physical exercise and large interactive screens, can be traced back to my childhood. Think back to your own childhood. What scars did it inflict on you? Which do you still carry today? To become an SLA, you will need to learn not to hide from your scars. Instead, you must confront them, then deploy them. Let them fuel your creative endeavours. You must turn your pain into art. Here’s how.

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Dear littérateurs,

Welcome to this month’s free round-up of highlights from my Serious Literary Diary (SLD). I think you will agree that I have had a Serious Literary June (SLJ).

Paid littérateurs receive my full diary, with up to three instalments per week. For a limited time, paid subscriptions are 25% off:

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When I take my iPod out in public, I can immediately sense people looking at me. I hear them thinking, ‘Wow, look at this man. See how he has rejected modernity and embraced analogue life. Observe how he has resisted the pull of addictive technology unlike the rest of us. Also he is very good looking.’

As a Serious Literary Author, I have always shunned …

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18 May 2026:

Today my wife left me. One moment she was there, the next she was gone, leaving me alone and bereft in a cold, quiet, empty house. I tried pouring my heart’s sorrow into writing, but found that I could not. No sooner did the ink leave my pen than it was dissolved by my tears. I tried making something to eat, but the items in the fridge spoke…

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4 May:

People often ask me how to write characters with accents. When writing a foreign character, one should portray the accent in a way that is both culturally sensitive and non-distracting for the reader.

I like to subtly signpost a character’s accent and nationality without spelling it out through the dialogue. Take, for example, the following passage from my fourth novel, The Body in the Woods (in France), in which the protagonist, Inspector Camembert, ponders the discovery of a body in the woods (in France):

“Ze body was found in ze woods zis morning.” Inspector Camembert said in a strong French accent. “‘Ow did zat ’appen?” He asked, his thick French lilt emphasising his Frenchness. “Ze area was checked only yesterday,” he added Frenchly. He adjusted his Beret, threw a frog’s leg into his mouth and washed it down with a swig of Cointreau. “Sumsing iz wrong ’ere,” he added Frenchly.

5 May:

Today I heard back from a literary journal informing me that they would like to publish my work. I was delighted. However, my delight turned to shock when I learned that they only wished to publish one of my poems. And my shock turned to appalment when I learned that they also planned to publish poems by other authors. I had no choice but to decline. To publish just one poem by a Serious Literary Author is an insult. To make it share the page with poems by other authors is a hostile act.

6 May:

I have been dabbling in writing song lyrics. I am particularly proud of the first few lines of this quietly devastating number called The Day Before Today:

The day before today

All my predicaments seemed to exist at a significant geographical distance from me

Now it looks as though they are in closer than previously thought to my immediate vicinity

Oh, I believe in the day before today

Suddenly

I exhibit less than 50% of my former adult male characteristics

The presence of some sort of overhead obstruction has rendered me poorly illuminated

Oh, the day before today came suddenly

7 May:

I am handwriting today’s diary entry. I have decided I am [illegible] with digital devices. As a Serious Literary Author, I require tactility. I [illegible] touch. The tap of finger on key cannot [illegible] with the caress of pen on paper. Pixels cannot [illegible] with the [illegible] of ink. There is something truer about handwritten words. Purer. More [illegible]. While it is true that I do not have the most beautiful or legible handwriting in the [illegible], this does not [illegible]. It is not the [illegible] of the words that matter; it [illegible] [illegible] words themselves. I look [illegible] to rediscovering this [illegible] [illegible] beautiful piece of [illegible] when [illegible] [illegible] [illegible] type it up later [illegible].

8 May:

Today I had a meeting with a literary agent. I decided beforehand that I must not seem too eager. As a Serious Literary Author, I should appear thoughtful, measured and circumspect at all times. I therefore decided to deploy the phrase, ‘I am somewhat circumspect’, at regular intervals throughout the meeting. I perhaps said this a few too many times, and I did on one occasion accidentally say I was somewhat circumcised, but I think I made a good impression.

10 May:

Today I tried to buy a house. I was passing through a village and saw a lovely cottage with a ‘For Sale’ sign by the door. It would be the perfect place to write my new novel. I knocked on the door and made a very generous offer, which the owner accepted straight away. I then went straight to the bank to secure a mortgage. Within minutes I was sitting across from a mortgage advisor who, after a few pleasantries, started asking questions about my income. I was shocked and appalled. Everybody knows it is rude to ask an author about his finances. He asked what percentage of the house value I required as a loan. I told him one hundred percent. He asked if I had any money available to put down as a deposit. I told him no. He asked if I could provide any proof of funds or income at all. I told him yes, I could provide proof of a brilliant idea for a novel that was guaranteed to become a bestseller when published. He told me the bank could not consider this proof of funds. Confident he would change his mind on hearing the idea, I explained that the plot centres around a group of toys that come to life when their owner leaves the room. He said it was an interesting idea, but unfortunately the bank would be unable to loan me 100% of a house’s value based on an idea for a novel. He then started to chuckle. I’ll be the one laughing when Toy Tale is published, I said before storming out of the room.

Quote of the week:

“Remember, whenever you feel worthless: right now one of your calls might be being used for training purposes.”

- Daniel Piper

This month I launched a newsletter exclusively for paying littérateurs. You can read the first volume below. For a limited time, paid subscriptions are 25% off:

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While I find writing to be a deeply nourishing act, sadly I also need to eat. Therefore, this newsletter will live behind the paywall, exclusively for paying littérateurs. Thank you for your Serious Literary Understanding (SLU).

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As a Serious Literary Author, all I wish to do is write. However, in order to pay the bills, I have at several points throughout my life been forced to seek Non-Literary Employment, or, as it is more colloquially known, a ‘job’. This is, of course, a deeply unwelcome state of affairs for an SLA. Time spent working is time not spent writing, which is physically painful for me. Ultimately, intellectually and spiritually, I like to think I am above having a job, and that this explains why I have been fired from every job I have ever had.

I procured my first job at the age of fourteen. This was on the advice of my parents, and against my better judgement (my judgement remains better than theirs in all regards). On enquiring about open positions at the shop in my home village of Cherry Burton, I was offered the position of Paper Boy, a distribution role involving newspapers and a bicycle.

I immediately started negotiating the terms of employment, demanding that the rate be increased from £10 per week to an annual salary of £40,000, and the job title be changed to Paper Man. Unfortunately I faced pushback on both counts.

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13 April 2026:

Today somebody unsubscribed from my newsletter. It didn’t bother me at all. As a Serious Literary Author, I have far more important things to worry about than metrics. Just to ensure he wasn’t under any illusion that I was troubled, I sent him an email letting him know that his unsubscribing was of such little significance to me that I hadn’t given it a second thought. In fact, I hadn’t even given it a first thought. He didn’t reply, so I sent a second email clarifying, just in case the first email hadn’t arrived, that I absolutely didn’t care. When he didn’t reply to this either, I started to think he may have unsubscribed by mistake, so I re-subscribed him. He immediately unsubscribed. Just to ensure this wasn’t another mistake, or some kind of technical glitch, I re-subscribed him again. He immediately unsubscribed. It didn’t bother me at all.

14 April 2026:

Today I travelled by plane. As a highly sophisticated Serious Literary Author, I am well used to flying. It causes me no anxiety at all. Indeed, this time I didn’t even start packing until just fourteen days before the flight. I strolled breezily into the terminal a mere nine hours early, casually glancing at my printed and laminated email for the location of the check-in desk (I had already checked in online but it is always a good idea to do it twice). Then, with a calm air of grace, I walked towards Security. I placed my bag onto the conveyor then sauntered calmly through the x-ray, my heart rate quickening in relaxation. A security officer then asked to look inside my bag. I started shaking serenely as I promised I wasn’t carrying any drugs and/or a bomb. Eventually my bag was returned to me (minus my Aesop Reverence Aromatique Hand Balm), and I strolled calmly towards Departures. Here I sat down and relaxed, glancing nonchalantly at the screen every thirty seconds. When the departure gate was eventually shown, I stood up and made my way there at a gentle sprint. As a frequent flyer, I know the importance of getting to the departure gate early; you never know when a plane might leave early. Once onboard and seated, I caught the eye of a flight attendant and casually enquired about the pilot’s flying experience. She told me there was no need to be scared. ‘I’m not scared,’ I replied jovially, winking at her (with both eyes). The flight attendants then performed a brief safety demonstration, after which I calmly put on my life jacket and blew the whistle. As the plane took off I let out a sophisticated scream, which continued until it landed ninety minutes later.

16 April 2026:

Last night I attended a dinner party. I was dreading the inevitable question that always arises when meeting strangers: ‘So, what do you do?’ Whilst I myself am of course aware of the gravity and importance of being a Serious Literary Author, occasionally, particularly in non-literary circles, it does not seem to command quite the same level of respect as job titles in scientific or medical fields. I spent the afternoon devising a new title for myself, eventually settling on Doctor of Authorpedics. This was how I introduced myself at the party. Unfortunately, over time I began to realise that the clever wordplay of ‘authorpedics’ didn’t quite translate when spoken aloud. Also, guests kept showing me their feet.

19 April 2026:

Today, after reading an inspirational poster, I decided to start treating others as I wished to be treated. This meant treating everybody I encountered as though they were a Serious Literary Author. To my surprise, not everybody seemed to appreciate this. When I chided my local greengrocer for gross apostrophe misuse on his signage (Carrot’s, Tomato’s, Lemon’s) and said he should know better, he told me in no uncertain terms to leave his establishment. Even those I complimented seemed ungrateful or confused. I received frowns from a train conductor whom I commended on the powerful recurring leitmotif of ‘Tickets, please’, a supermarket cashier whom I praised for her excellent scansion, and a bricklayer whose wall I deemed to have solid structural and narrative integrity. Perhaps least grateful of all was the paramedic I saw performing CPR, who was highly unreceptive to my suggestion of workshopping more original ways to express urgency than ‘Stay with me’. It was at this point that I started to wonder if a better piece of advice might be to treat others as they wish to be treated.

Quote of the week:

“Never utilise an elongated word where a diminutive one shall suffice.”

- Daniel Piper

Author’s note:

This week I am be launching a new weekly newsletter, consisting of essays, literary criticism and Serious Literary Extracts. Because I must eat, it will live behind the paywall. So, if you enjoy my work and would like to read more of it, please consider becoming a paid subscriber littérateur. It would bring me great Serious Literary Joy (SLJ).

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Do you have any advice on dealing with jealousy? A man I was at university with has just published a novel that is receiving a frankly indecent amount of praise. Every time I see his book in a shop window I am overcome with envy. How does one behave graciously in this situation?

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Dear littérateurs,

Following my stunning literary smackdown of George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four last week, it was clear what classic text you wanted me to critique next. Several of you asked me to turn my Serious Literary Eye to the first page of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens, one of the most famous openings ever.

Chapter 1:
The Period

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

- From A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens (1859)

This is one of the worst openings I have ever read, and one that sadly suggests Dickens to be a highly unserious and unliterary author. Right from the off, he displays a total lack of conviction in his ideas. Were the times good or bad? Was the season light or dark? Make your mind up, Charles.

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9 February:

Spent the morning looking up bags online. Wife said I own enough bags already. I patiently explained that while I own appropriate bags for occasions when I need to carry a novel, a notebook, an iPad, or all three, I do not currently own an appropriate bag for occasions when I need to carry a novel and a notebook but no iPad. She rolled her ey…

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Dear littérateurs,

Welcome to the first instalment of Serious Literary Criticism, a new regular column in which I turn my Serious Literary Eye to the writing of others and offer constructive feedback. This week I am critiquing the opening sentences of Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell.

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As a Serious Literary Author, I require sadness in order to write. Happiness is not conducive to producing serious literature.

I immediately began trying to lower my mood. I read the news, listened to the soundtrack to Schindler’s List, watched the ending of Watership Down and deliberately stubb…

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Today I took Fleur to her first puppy training class. I was keen to receive some guidance, as she does not always respond to my commands. For example, she does not sit when I say ‘Lower thy haunch and be seated’, does not come when I say ‘Come hither with due haste,’ and does not stay when I say ‘Hold fast thy current position’.

I was pleased when the tr…

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I think I wo…

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