There is nothing unusual about this letter; I get a version of it every few days, sometimes running into thousands of derogatory words. And, of course, it is true.
Of course, of course, of course.
Authorship is the supreme act of ego.
Whether it is good or evil, as an act, depends, I suppose not so much on what's written, as how the writing is.
Most authors conceal the egoistic aspect of the business under the nom de plumes of their characters.
But exactly as every man is all that he thinks and does—and dreams, too—so is an author all he writes.
A mystery writer is a murderer in his head and he sets down his gory lore for an audience of murderers.
What does that make you, Wylie? You first-person author!
Did I use it to take the blame and the guilt—to take the responsibility—and to tear down the artifice of the third person? And was it true (as I felt) that, since my purpose was to turn the thoughts of better authors into a vernacular more popular than their own, my I was the mere agent—and not the excreted vanity which it so constantly deplored? Or was the whole affair a secret exercise in look-ma-I'm-dancing?
God knows, some part of it had to be.