Just contacted a small press to see if they’re hiring freelancers, and the answer is yes! Right now I am booked through August, but I hope this press will have something for me. For all of March I’d stupidly taken a break from freelance work in order to try my hand at a March writing spree, and not only did I not write as much as I’d written last November but I did not make any freelance money. And now I’m playing catch-up. And I’m going to return the two Kadare books. Here’s the trade-off, at least for today: the small press is Kadare’s publisher, so I will so hit them up.

*

me: I only take on fiction.

small press: Why do your contacts distinguish between fiction and nonfiction for you?

me: I have a full-time job, plus I write fiction myself, so I prefer to be choosy with the jobs I take on.

small press: Would you be open to literary nonfiction?

me: Oh, yes. Anything literary, really.

small press: All right, you got it.

I bought two novels by Ismail Kadare from Barnes & Noble over the weekend, they were impulse purchases, as most of my purchases tend to be, bought along with the current Saint Anne’s Review that’s got a story by the lady who moderates my workshop—but I am now thinking of returning them, not because I don’t enjoy them but because I can’t afford to keep them.

*

M’s text, 12/14/05: You should read the ismail kadare story in the current Granta.

my reply text: Thanks, will get it now.

M’s text, 12/17/05: Good. His china reminds me of your china. Enjoy. I’m off to Taiwan tomorrow. Ciao!

*

Why The Pyramid and The Three-Arched Bridge, and not The File on H. or The Successor? The former two are about creating impossible structures, and well, wouldn’t you know it, my work is both about and composed of impossible structures. Will I ever finish them?

(I must, of course, pick up The Concert. But when and how?)

*

The first paragraph from The Three-Arched Bridge:

I, the monk Gjon, the sonne of Gjorg Ukcama, knowynge that ther is no thynge wryttene in owre tonge about the Brigge of the Ujana e Keqe, have decided to write its story, especially when legends, false tales, and rumors of every kind continue to be woven around it, now that its construction is finished and it has even twice been sprinkled with blood, at pier and parapet.

*

And the first paragraph from The Pyramid:

When, one morning in late autumn, only a few months after he had ascended the throne of Egypt, Cheops, the new Pharaoh, let slip that he might perhaps not wish to have a pyramid erected for him, all who heard him—the palace astrologer, some of the most senior ministers, Cheops’s old counselor Userkaf, and the High Priest Hemiunu, who also held the post of architect-in-chief—furrowed their brows as if they had just heard news of a catastrophe.

*

Gorgeous, both. Imagination is fired up. I might keep one novel. A friend is going to Egypt next year, and I want to read The Pyramid and think of her when she does, especially as I keep threatening to stow away in her little pocket, and especially, too, as I am in third-person mode these days. But I am also feeling the novel about the bridge. What to do? Should I call in sick and take my bike and the books to the promenade and read them in one sunny, humid day?

editor (who flirts with everybody, who always thinks I’m up to something naughty or deep when the explanation is always quite dorky, and with whom I had a massive obsession years ago, but now I roll my eyes at him, both in front of him and behind his back): W, why do you go stomping past my door all the time?

me: I stomp?

editor: Yes. I’m wondering if you’re mad about something or are very determined to get a manuscript off your desk.

me: No. I just have to pee. [The bathroom is a few doors past his office.]

[Beat.]

editor: I suppose some things should be left unknown.

*

Well, I’ll have to wave hello and acknowledge my peeing to him every time I pass his office from now on.

And: I should stomp louder—right?

Or am I watching too much Curb Your Enthusiasm?

Saturday afternoon, waiting for eye exam. Salesperson runs through contact-lens options for me, while doc, also standing behind counter, stares at me, now and then interjecting silly joke. I ignore him completely. Am not in any mood to be polite with a flirt. Something is wrong with right eye.

There’s confusion regarding my file. I’ve been going to this little hole in the wall since 1998. I’ve watched salesperson after salesperson write down the most recent information into my file. I know what my file looks like. The tab reads: “C, WM.”

The file they pull out has the name “C, MY.”

Doc peers over salesperson’s shoulder and says to me: “You sure that’s not you—?”

Cut in: “I’m sure.”

Doc: “Because sometimes we write down the wrong—”

Me: “I’m positive that’s not my name.”

Doc [compares spelling of my name with spelling of other file]: “Really, that’s not you?”

“No.” Still not looking at him. Doc’s voice is flirtatious, ridiculous. I keep straight face and stare at the file box, waiting for salesperson to pick out correct file.

Eventually, it happens. “Look,” says doc, “there’s your name after all!”

During exam, doc’s banter is such that I can’t tell when he’s being serious and when he’s making a dumb joke. Usually I smile along when I can’t tell. But today I just nod and keep that straight face, especially as it’s difficult to gauge his expression with glasses off. Still, it’s easy to guess where his eyes look while I stare gloomily ahead. I slouch some more and push creepy willies to back of mind.

After exam, as salesperson’s ringing up my credit card, doc asks me: “Is that your natural hair color?”

Sigh. “Yes.”

“My girlfriend adds highlights to her hair. I don’t know why. She has jet-black hair, too, otherwise. She’s Chinese.”

No reaction from me. Have no feeling of responsibility or compunction to respond. The one time I do glance at him full in the face, I look away quickly, my level of annoyance having risen so drastically in the one glance. Must keep the zen and not engage in something that makes me uncomfortable or dispirited or, in this case, repulsed. Of course, I should have left the moment I stepped into the store: the door’s pull/push signs are reversed—pull when you’re supposed to push, and push when you’re supposed to pull. A tip-off there, yes? Should have “pushed” my way right out at outset. A few blocks north is better spot but which is closed on Saturdays. If only I’d had patience to wait till Sunday, just one more day. But right eye was cloudy.

I listen to the salesperson’s instructions and then sign the receipt. A family comes in. The dad looks confused. He shows salesperson his broken glasses. The mother gives me a smile, and I smile back. Then I head out into sunshine, on my way home to walk dog.

Had written draft of story many moons ago where narrator’s right eye is hurting, and little kid she meets tries to replace the bad eye with a marble. Perhaps will pick up story again with fresh perspective.

Not quite news, but news-ish for me: have written a story, and am going to send it out to journals. Wrote this piece for a reading last weekend, which went surprisingly well considering humidity everybody sweated through. Truth be told, may have been because of everybody’s discomfort that I felt so much at ease that night. Other factors:

• Pre-reading drinks at friend’s apartment around the corner from bar.
• Friends had gathered—and social anxiety diminished considerably. Possibly due to humidity. (One point in evening at pre-reading drinks: sole man sitting among group of seven or so women seemed frozen in seat. If his shirt had sported collar, he’d have been tugging at it endlessly. I say: What a sweetheart that he’d shown up—but I’ve scared him away.)
• General buoyancy of spirit from several weeks before, as well as awe that these high spirits have chosen to remain. Little disappointments and negatives are not being experienced as crashes but more as lessons learned. And so managed to wade through several outings without vowing “Nevermore!” at end of day.
• Very much liked story that was read. (What I think of it now is another matter.)

*

While readying story for reading, printed out old files that hadn’t been touched in ages, and in spreading them out trying to find one that contained the right rhythm for reading aloud, saw how dull and static many scenes were. Yes, there was familiar excitement behind possibilities they’d engendered during the writing—and in fact they still do—but fundamental flaw was blatant: too little concreteness, too much run-on fancy. Was dumbstruck (though should not really be so surprised, given certain stubborn literary blinders), and sent note to G: “Miss you and hope you’re feeling better. Going to babysit sweet, nerdy T tonight. Revelation of the day: I’m a terrible writer. Love you!”

G’s response: “You know that all great writers say this about themselves, don’t you?”

Wrote back: “Then I must be the greatest writer in the world, because I say this about myself every day!”

*

Narrowed the files down to two: one starting with “My father hung me from a tree” (What? Where did that come from?) and the other a little paragraph written on Mother’s Day, when feeling warmly toward idea of having children one day (feeling has receded considerably since then, don’t worry). Was figuring this out at office, as poor laptop is still kaput. One evening around ten p.m., heard noise outside closed door. Feared ghosts or robbery. Called J, who could barely hear me, I was whispering so softly, and told me to leave quickly. So shut down computer, turned off desk lamp, and then, breath held, scurried out of office—safe, unharmed, but story still unfinished.

Next morning, back at office during bright light of day, was very productive; same productivity occurred following morning of the reading itself. Combined the two files together, and story became one about a drowned family. Got e-mail from friend after reading: “I can’t believe you went there. But I’m glad you did.” Friend’s note rather astonished me, as I hadn’t realized what had been breached. She’d used the word “taboo” in e-mail. Asked J about this afterward, and he said, not at all surprised, “You have to be more aware of the morality behind what you’re trying to write, and take responsibility of that morality.”

Couple of nights ago, had drinks with younger version of myself (really, very strange), who’d just finished reading John Gardner’s The Art of Fiction, and emphasized the necessity for a certain kind of morality in all that one writes. Have been thinking of this, plus J’s admonishment, ever since. Another friend a while back also recommended The Art of Fiction. Amazon’s sending it to me in a few days.

*

Earlier in the month, met with K the memoirist and had described to her, as had been describing to almost anybody who’d listen, about obsession with the word “nipple.” Something’s wrong with mine (found blood on bra this morning), and feel all-consuming need to describe this thing in a story. Years ago, workshopped silly story called “Itchy Breasts,” where narrator scratched so hard at nipple that hand came away with blood. Was describing all this to K, talking out this idea to go with silly rather than my usual serious shit at the reading, and she listened politely and with amusement and then said: “This sounds great. But is it really something that speaks from your heart?” And suddenly recalled professor’s advice from many years ago during disastrous thesis discussion: “Write from your heart.”

So okay. Wrote from my heart. Nothing about nipples for the reading (though have vowed to combine nipple and heart in a story eventually, damnit), but everything about drowned villages and families in the Yangtze River, an ever-changing tide in China. After the reading, sent note to K: “I wrote the real piece. Thank you.”

*

Woke up a month ago with feathered hair. Have gotten a haircut since then, and now have bangs. It looks fine, but if wind tosses the bangs just so, will look like seventh-grade class photo: gawky, awkward, thick hair with nowhere to go but upward and out.

There’s a video of me on YouTube at this reading. Can’t watch it the whole way through with sound on. And am disconcerted to see that I’m practically grinning throughout the reading, when story is about family that’s drowned. Where’s the heart in that? Ay . . .

I am coding a manuscript for the design department, and the pages are very clean, so far just two elements to code—story title (ST) and space break (#)—which made me think of fiction using only words, that is sans poem or letter extracts, or charts/graphs/pictures/etc., which then made me think of the stupid computerized picture I’d inserted into a story I’d published some years ago based on a dream about spotting a library without any outer walls and with chairs whose swivel stems can telescope upward so one can reach the highest shelf, and this then also made me think of those who employ the visuals to startlingly excellent effect, such as Sebald and Teju Cole.

The editor’s little comments throughout the above manuscript, a story collection by a bright young star:

I love it.

Tighter here.

Great ending.

Let reader make the connection.

Wow!

Then I came across the author’s typed note at the end of a story: “BETTER LAST SENTENCE TK.” For many reasons, most especially because I needed some kind of relief, a return to my own reality and away from the grind that is my office these days (four 1,000-page manuscripts passing through my office in a row), the line made me smile and has me determined to write a shitload of stories this weekend.

Have agreed to proofread a new novel by the writer I’d vowed to forever avoid, ever since I’d proofread one of his myriad novels in a series years ago.

I need the money.

Maybe I’m wrong to have disliked his other novel so much. Maybe I’m just not his audience, not when review after review of the previous books were so positive and enthusiastic: “AMS has done it again!”

Has done what again? I’d wondered, about the book I’d proofread. I must be a terrible reader not to like his likable series.

It’s raining. How fitting.

*

ETA: A better job just came along, and I said yes to it and then contacted the contact for this job to say I need to bow out because something much better came along—an idiot! telling the truth, when one would rather hear of a mishap or some such, rather than “Something better came along, and you know I prefer that to this.” Idiot me, am now feeling the guilt.

Working on a 900-plus-page novel at the office, and my proofreader has queried every instance of a comma-less “too”—i.e., “He laughed too,” as opposed to “He laughed, too.”

It depends on the style the author prefers, of course, plus my boss once instructed me not to globally add or remove such commas, as it really depends on the construction of the sentence and even of the paragraph itself. In this case, however, the author is dead, and the translator, if asked, would prefer to keep a comma-less rhythm. I have honored this preference for the most part, and yet there are some spots that beg for that comma—though if I had to explain the reason behind it (the comma separates the two preceding items; the comma offers a needed pause; the comma refers to the subject of the sentence, not the object), I would get confused, because for every reason to isolate that “too,” there’s an equally reasoned counterpoint to leave it alone.

Now I’ve got the urge to ignore the proofreader’s queries and change all instances to “He laughed along” or “He laughed as well” or “He too laughed,” though the last would probably be flagged by another proofreader with the query “Add commas around ‘too’?”

*

Am on page 692 now, and despising this word. It feels like I’m okaying or naying commas willy-nilly.

*

On page 723, and am recalling my fondness for “too” when a narrator would spew out a list of observations and depend on the word to emphasize her sense of urgency or state of mind (earnest, innocent, righteous).

*

What is a “metallic voice”?

Am alarmed to be feeling so down. In some ways it makes sense—financial issues are closing in (am meeting with my new accountant on Wednesday), I want to sell my apartment but have to make minor renovations first, my stories are coming along but not being written fast enough, work at the office has piled up much too much, good friend from college was gracious but I saw him in a stressful environment, another good friend is sick and as incoherent as ever, a disagreement with J stirred up many past negatives. My mouth feels pinched.

Where did my zen go?

J is dragging me out for a jog tonight. I am not a jogger, but I’m hoping it will wake me up.

My laptop screen went blank last night. Every time I turned on the computer to back up or run a virus check, after some time (depending on how long I’d left it alone before hitting the “on” button) the screen would go blank again. No warning. So I left it alone all night. This morning I brought it to the office to transfer files to my work computer via a flash drive. It took an hour or so. My files are safe! And my laptop ran for a long time, but then in the afternoon went blank again.

Like my head right now.

How to make backups of everything in my head?

Thursday

Had dinner with one of the writers from the Sunday writing group. We stayed till closing time. She is so lovely and positive. I’m a little in love, and I told her so.

*

Friday

10:15 a.m.: Cried at desk after reading news headlines. My boss was not surprised at all. I am embarrassed to say that I was.

3:00 p.m.: Snuck out of the office to have dessert with my cousin. Met the pastry chef who worked at the dessert spot. He’s a wise-ass. By four p.m., slunk guiltily back to work, with cousin in tow. She sat in my guest chair for a while, not knowing what to do with the rest of her afternoon.

10:30 p.m.: Met with G and her out-of-town guests at a restaurant, two of them Chinese poets, another a translator of Chinese poetry, and the other a student of acupuncture. One of the Chinese poets did not speak English, and I did my best to be clear during our conversation. He called G a mei nu zuo jia—a beautiful woman writer. The translator teasingly translated the phrase as “chick-lit writer,” but I admonished him and gave G the correct translation. Then the poet invited me to visit him in Chengdu, where his tribe lives and which is near my father’s province. I vowed to the poet that I would go see him next year, and hopefully on a trip with my parents.

11:30 p.m.: A package awaited me at home. A friend had sent me one of those diaries with a lock on it. I’d owned two such diaries from elementary school and middle school, when I grew frustrated with and jealous of my brilliant best friend and was obsessed with boys and my wardrobe. These diaries are stashed away somewhere in my closet, and when I’m ready to clean out that closet I’ll reread them and have a good laugh. They’ll be both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. I still have my quirks and social anxieties, but I’ve come to accept them more or less, and any bad feeling toward anybody is tempered with a mild amusement at my own sense of drama and self-importance. If there’s a particularly good entry, I’ll copy it into this space. My friend’s note in the package read: I have a challenge for you. Write down the secrets of a character, and by the end of the summer you’ll have a whole novel! Make the secrets as intimate and insane as possible. Ah! My “character”’s first thoughts about keeping a diary were:

• “I want to kill my parents.”
• “I want to kill my best friend.”
• “I want to kill myself.”

followed by:

• “Must ask everybody’s permission first, of course. And if the answer is no, then long dialogues with each about why, though dialogue with self must necessarily be the shortest.”

*

Saturday

11:00 a.m.: Had lunch at La Bonbonniere on Eighth Avenue. Ordered my favorite: the famous challah French toast (three thick slices) and one pancake. Sat at the counter and watched the owners squabble as they made omelet after omelet, pancake after pancake, sandwich after sandwich. Somebody two seats down shook his head at me and said, “They’re such lovers, aren’t they?”

12:00 p.m.: Went to a café for coffee and writing. Hardly wrote. Well, did write, but saw that the piece I was readying for my writing group made no sense whatsoever. None. There had been a good opening paragraph a week ago, then I butchered it into something else, and now I’m trying to remember the germ of that first version. But at the café, got nowhere, so discarded it for the time being. Then saw somebody working with a red pencil and the Chicago Manual of Style at hand, so went up to him to ask if he was a proofreader and if he’d like my press to try him out. Hell yes, he said.

2:00 p.m.: Wandered over to the Eighth Avenue street fair, where a friend was giving a dance class demonstration for a gym promotion, and his pals, both dancers and nondancers like moi, agreed to back him up. I am not a performer—I find that I can “shine” only in a very specific mind frame—but I did love the hilarity and the public spectacle of it, and so I wound up dancing through the next two dance demonstrations as well.

6:30 p.m.: Met up with my nephew, T, for a babysitting stint. He took me to a ramen spot on Third Avenue. He kept spinning in his seat. The lady who sat beside him asked the waiter, “Do you have any forks?” T said to me, “They’re going to make a lot of money tonight because we’re here, plus the lady with her three children—why does she have so many children?—plus there’s that couple over there, plus that man over there, plus the couple who were here before us . . .” When we got back to his apartment, we watched a Scooby Doo movie in which Cass Elliott made a guest appearance. There were many jokes about her weight, and the plot made no sense. I grew drowsy on the couch. T and I had shared a whole box of Skittles gum, and my wad of gum was melting in my mouth. During the bedtime ritual T did not ask this time if I wanted to see his privates. Instead: “Want to see my underwear?” He was proud of his Gap underwear. Then he said, “Okay, you can turn away now, because I’m going to change.”

*

Sunday

12:30 p.m.: Had yummy muffins and coffee at Café Grumpy with J. We sat on a bench outside. My foul mood from earlier that morning finally dissipated. There are bursts of anger that can’t be dislodged no matter how hard I try to calm myself. Since January or so (actually, I think this started sometime last year), these bursts have been infrequent. But when they happen, it’s very hard to surface from them. I feel this is a failure of my willpower, of my rationale. Then the anger pops like a balloon when J makes one of his zinger jokes, as only he can. When I hear myself crack up, I know I am cured for the time being. It helps, too, when I’m munching on a mango-blueberry muffin.

3:30 p.m.: Went to dance class. After my half of the class performed for the other half, a woman ran over to me to give me a high-five and then a big hug. I hadn’t recognized myself in the routine, and was startled that somebody had seen that something else as well. I thanked her. I think I stand out only because I’m dancing in a style I’d learned from other racier classes; this particularly group is trained in jazz, so they’re technically proficient but don’t quite, ah, “bring the funky,” as the instructor constantly demands of us. Afterward, while I was stretching on the mats outside the dance studio, a kickboxing trainer complimented me on the dancing. He offered to give me a free private kickboxing lesson. I thought about the kickboxing retreat J and I had been talking about. Then the trainer gave me his phone number and e-mail address. He said he was going to China in August. Something about the Olympics. “Wow,” I said, “will you be on TV?” He sniffed: “I’m always on TV. But I’m fifty, I have to retire next year. I’ve been doing this for all my life, and I’ve won everything there is to win. I have twelve championships in all.” Later in the conversation, he said he was forty-five, and I knew for sure that I wouldn’t be calling him for a private lesson.

6:00 p.m.: Had a crepe from Shade to Go, then had tea at Tea Spot, then—finally—went into the IFC Center to stand in line for Up the Yangtze, for which I’d been waiting to come to New York since I’d first heard of Still Life. The film was so beautiful. I wasn’t too keen on the voiceover or the introductory piece of traditional music at first, but soon settled into the rhythm of the movie and was entranced. Beside me sat a white man I’d met in line in the lobby. He peppered his speech with Chinese phrases, which unnerved me partly because his Chinese was so good—much better than mine, and the musical tones mastered in only three years—and partly because I don’t tend to pepper my speech with Chinese unless absolutely necessary, like with my family or if I were in Taiwan (though more accurately: with family, my Chinese is peppered, liberally, with English). But to be spoken to as if I were from China, when I’d made it clear I was born in New York (somewhere on 31st Street), felt a little strange. I’m used to watching those fluent in Chinese to speak to one another with this easy back-and-forth vocabulary—that’s what I’d witnessed Friday evening with the Chinese translator, it’s what I witness indeed with those confident in their Chinese, like with my sister and our parents—and I always see these people as if they’re part of their own club while I’m outside watching them through a window. I’m not pressing my nose to the glass, though, no; instead, I’m glad simply to be a witness, to watch for those gestures and words that are familiar to my eye and ear, and to recognize that there’s a part of me in both worlds. This is how I grew up in my household. But on Sunday I was jolted by the stranger’s insistence that I was indeed part of the club; my Chinese was serviceable, and he seemed to understand me and I him more or less. He did have to translate “e-mail” to me at one point, however—busted.

10:30 p.m.: J showed me the new addition to our little family—Josephine the mouse. Last week he’d asked me, “Which name do you prefer, Josephine or Emily?” As I’m partial to “J” names for some reason, I chose Josephine. Then I asked him what the name was for. He said I’d find out soon enough, but here was a hint in the meantime: Kafka.

*

Next Weekend

Saturday: Going to a friend’s housewarming. This is the friend I hadn’t seen in ages, and he showed up one evening out of the blue a few weeks ago and I did indeed give him the big hug. Then will be heading to Flushing, where my family and I will celebrate my father’s seventy-seventh birthday.

Sunday: Meeting writing group, then off to see G. S and I plan to bring her shark’s fin soup. G’s health is getting worse, and her spirit is down. I’d sent an SOS to S sometime ago, and he suggested shark’s fin soup, and I said, “You are brilliant.”

*

Am recalling all this good stuff because I’m rather out of it at the moment because of premenstrual wave that hit all of a sudden. It’s been somewhat alleviated by four Tylenols and a bowl of pesto pasta, but in general, am feeling very fuzzy-minded and sore in the arms. My needing to sleep last night at 10:30 p.m. now makes sense. Josephine’s exercise wheel jolted me awake at two in the morning, though; the first night it sounded like Aphex Twin, something J used to put on for us before bed, but last night the squeaking wheel sounded more like a rusty weather vane atop a deserted farmhouse. The calm before the storm, or something.

I has it!

Well, it’s on my fingertips.

But truly it’s there—am finally understanding what these stories from the past couple months will amount to.

Now, to write them . . .

It took me four hours earlier tonight to perfect a paragraph. I forget sometimes how tedious my process can be.

Still, at three a.m., plowing on.

Mille grazie, J.

The accountant asked me: “Do you travel?”

“No.”

“Never?”

I was embarrassed. “I’m visiting my brother in L.A. next month.”

“Let’s say instead that you’re going to a writers’ gathering in May—and while you’re there, hey why not see your brother?”

A writer’s accountant, this. My first.

I showed him one receipt. It was a donation (this my first too) to a fledgling press.

He set the receipt aside.

“But I donated,” I said proudly. “Fifty dollars. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“Not really.”

I stared at that receipt. I’d made a list of all the nonprofit presses I was going to donate to this year. Not that I have the money.

“You owe X dollars,” the accountant said toward the end of our meeting.

X = about $30 = much, much less than what I owed last year.

“And,” the accountant added, “you owe me one thousand.”

My friend, who’d referred him to me, said he charges her around $350.

I left the accountant’s office promising to pay him in installments, regretting that I hadn’t asked him to lower the fee, wondering if accountants ever lowered their fees, already drafting a note asking if he could lower his fee.

*

I dial the Asian American Arts Alliance. A man answers: “Hello, this is H.”

“Hi, my name is w. I’m—”

“Hello, w! You’re calling about the Urban Artist Initiative, right?”

“Yes, I—”

“You’re wondering where your check is, right?”

“Well yes—”

“We’re cutting them today or tomorrow. People have been asking about this. Thanks for checking in.”

“Thank you.”

A dear friend from college has two children.

Another close friend from college is trying to have a baby.

My best friend from high school just had twins.

Yesterday, the young assistant said to me, “Don’t you want children? You’d make a great mother.” She said this in all sincerity.

But I’m more comfortable with the word aunt.

My biological clock does not tick. Having children has never been a dream of mine. When I think of having a child, my whole body goes cold.

And that’s too bad. I think I could be an all-right mother.

I hope this is a phase. The wondering about raising my own kid, that is . . .

Ugh, it smells like everybody in the whole office just farted. What the—

An editor was in my office. I gently chastised him for passing on my friend’s manuscript. He felt remorse, and admitted that he couldn’t yet bear to part with the book (it’s sitting in his office at home) even though he and his boss decided in the end that we weren’t the right house for it.

“Not the right house?” I said. “The book has our name practically stamped all over it.”

The editor hung his head.

I told him how this writer was amazing and already carved a lovely path for himself, and that what came next would be superlatively grand. Then I told the editor that he should steal my friend away from the other publisher—for the next book, at least.

We both sighed.

“I guess I have to wait a little longer for the next great thing,” said the editor.

I waved my hand hello. “Right here,” I said. Then I put my hand down in embarrassment. My voice had squeaked. I never talk about my writing to the editors at the office. What bravado.

“All right,” said the editor. “I am waiting.”

“So am I,” I said. Then, to deflect attention away from myself, as I am wont to do, I said, “But you already had it in your hands.”