It was sometime in late 2010 when my mate started thinking about ways to kill me off.
Lately people have been asking me about the private, pro bono, client-centered histories I sometimes provide for people who have been subject to medical trauma. Providing these histories to individuals -- work that remains almost completely invisible to the outside world -- has been the most consistently satisfying aspect of my professional life. I would love to scale up this work.
The relationship Calvin described having with Alice made me terrifically uncomfortable, because I didn’t know any other marriage like his: a marriage made up of two people somehow fundamentally different and permanently in love.
Mrs. Kuzmier, my fourth grade teacher, told me I couldn’t be a writer.
A good friend is facing a book deadline of her own, and I offered to be her book nag, and so I found myself sharing with her my tips on how to manage writing a book when you’re also a mother. . . .
Writing as intensely as I did at the end of my dissertation is even more exhausting than it was way back then, no doubt because I’m older and busier. I feel sorry for my mate, who has a spouse who currently sleeps upwards of eleven hours a day.
Apparently a friend of ours had mentioned over poker that his wife had said to him, presumably in a dreamy voice, “Do you think the future Princess Kate thinks about becoming Queen?” I admitted to the mate I had been wondering the exact same thing.
You’re probably wondering who Pixie is. She’s my muse. I don’t remember when I learned her name, nor do I even remember when she showed up in my imagination as an actual person. Well, not exactly a person. She looks like a bad-girl version of Tinkerbell, so more like a fairy. She also smokes, although never near me, so I’m OK with it.
Wasn't Publishing Supposed to Be About New Knowledge, or Improving Human Existence, or Something Other Than . . . Publishing?
When I was a mortgage broker in the 80’s, on Long Island, it was obvious to us all the system was broken and would crash. You see, we were all being paid to write mortgages. No one’s income depended on whether property owners could actually pay the mortgages back. Write ‘em up, write ‘em up, rah rah rah.
I did finally find the chicken. In fact, I just now looked in my dissertation and verified that. It was a Leghorn fowl.