I miss this little Tumblr. Holy moly I am itching to write something that is not about the writing of someone else. Good news: I’ve got like 15 pages left to write of my book (PROCESS: THE WRITING LIVES OF GREAT AUTHORS—they tell me it’s time to start promoting), and then revisions. I need to share this because S. Jam is out of town and I haven’t talked to anyone but my dog since Sunday. SOS.
Puffer coats and stick legs.
Saturday Afternoon, Somewhat but not very Sentimental
Sometimes the most miraculous things happen when I’m staring out my window; steam coils up from the top of a building across the great open space of the city, a light goes on in an all-glass apartment as the final light of day recedes, snowflakes as big as a feather float upward before remembering to fall down, seasons change, a flock of birds takes flight from a roof, choreographed, musical, and long after they’re gone, a single bird circles the earth.
Thirteen chapters into this 18-chapter book I’m writing, I’ve started daydreaming about a moment of surprise when I find out that in fact the book is only to be 15 chapters long, and I can go sit under a palm tree and nothing else.
Over at Strolby, I finally went public with the ongoing war between S. Jam Fitzgerald and me over his recliner, which just for context takes up roughly 15 percent of the entire square footage of our current apartment.
(The piece is really about chairs designed in Brooklyn, but I managed to also make it about meeeeee).
What getting a new laptop looks like. When my old one (on the coffee table) basically went kaput, I started using S. Jam Fitzgerald’s (the MacBook Air in the foreground) until my brand new Lenovo Yoga Pro 2 arrived in the mail. Now all files are scattered among the three machines and the fragile order of my daily worklife has fallen apart completely.
Can’t wait to spend the next couple months listening to Apple Cult Members explain away the amazing new features that their Macs don’t have. Enjoy your lack of a touchscreen suckers!
On Two Years in Rockaway and the Best-Ever New Year’s Eve
(I borrowed photos from Mic and Merna for this post)
As you know, a couple years ago my boyfriend and I rented an apartment in Rockaway, where we would be close to the ocean and have an escape from the city, where we also have an apartment. We’ve been here long enough now, in our floor-through apartment in a hundred-year-old house from which we interact with the ocean in silly ways, to have a general understanding of the social currents on this urban barrier island. Part and parcel to this understanding: There is a troop that has amassed in Rockaway; to call it a community might in fact be appropriate, but offends my distaste for the overwrought sentiment and forced fondness and phrases like “peace and love” that I associate with that word.
Lingering vs. Efficiency: A Story About Families
Two nights ago, on our last night in Kentucky before driving back to New York, my parents poured S. Jam Fitzgerald and I glasses of wine (my dad gave us pinotage and for himself poured a Two-Buck Chuck, because he aims to please and has no pallet I think), We sat in the living room, played with our dog and theirs (who hated each other), snacked on more junk when our bellies achieved any state not approximating overstuffed, and played with the dogs some more. At some point my dad cooked up some Swiss chard. At some other point the occasional yawn began to pepper the conversation, which was still mostly about the dogs.
My Postpartum Depression
I just submitted the first 10 chapters of my book to the publisher, and turns out I’m not at all comfortable with the concept of no longer being able to change anything. Who knew I felt this attached to editing myself.