![]() ![]() ![]() All that time, I wrote hundreds of pages, two different novels born from the sheer desperation to remember the writer I’d always been-decisive, if nothing else. And then I had two children, and in between having them, I took on my first full-time teaching job. Time spent in seat is directly proportional to books written. Until recently, I was a firm devotee of the butt-in-seat school of writing. As her compliments unfold, it occurs to me that I am holding under my arm a galley of Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri, and that my hair is in a low bun, as in the author photos of Jhumpa Lahiri, and so I must gently break it to this Jhumpa Lahiri superfan that I am not Jhumpa Lahiri. That my writing has meant a great deal to her, so much so that she’s almost moved to tears. I pass through the lobby, and as I’m about to leave through the building’s revolving doors, a woman, coming in, stops me to say that she loves my writing, loves my book. ![]() ![]() It’s glorious and overwhelming, all the glamorous people, all the galleys that are being heaped into my arms and stuffed in my tote bag before I say goodbye. My lovely editor invites me to their office at Midtown to meet her as well as the fleet of people who are responsible for bringing a book into the world. And you, dear writers, friends of writers, and debutantes, you are the ones I’ve been waiting for. There’s a story I’ve been waiting to tell for fifteen years, and which I’ve never shared publicly, partly because I’ve been waiting for the right audience to receive it. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |