Or How About A Bird Flying?

Wednesday, the 10th of August. First thing, walked the dog. Went for a run with Tracy around the reservoir. Made coffee. Worked on the novel until noon. 67,000 words and counting. Bought strawberries, bananas, peaches from the produce man. Took Gem with me. Too hot for us out there, Gem in her fur coat. Picked up laundry. Came home.

Made strawberry, banana popsicles. Put away laundry. Read a little of Nicole Krauss’s novel The Great House, which I didn’t have patience for, when it came out, years ago. Seeing her autograph on the first page, I remembered meeting her at the 92nd Street Y. My first book was about to be published. I asked her how she dealt with using real people as characters, family members, friends. Whether she did and how she/they felt about it. I remember she was dismissive, even rude. Now, reading the first section of her novel, I find it’s about that exactly. Did she think I was pulling her leg?

How many years since then? Ten, I think. Ten years! Fast as a single year of childhood-time. Try to explain the concept to a young person of fifteen, or twenty-five, or even thirty. You can’t. You’ll only sound like an old fool if you try.

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