When I was in the 11th grade, I read the Hite Report among a number of other books in a campaign to learn what I feared I might not experience. In my quest for “knowledge,” I learned a few things I had not known. At that time, I wrote a poem for my creative writing class and in it I used the word “masturbate.” Fair enough, except I spelled it “masterbate.”

My teacher, Mr. B., a man who did not look good in the double knits he favored, wrote the following in the margin, “Dr. Freud?” I had, by this time, also read enough of Freud to know what he meant. He called me into his office to talk about the poem. He had rectangular glasses that were always askew on his mostly bald head and a beard he trimmed as stiff as my father’s shoe shine brush.

Friends, why couldn’t the history teacher/tennis coach call me into his office and whisk me away in his lemon-colored TR6 the way he had a senior with long blond hair and a great stroke? Mr. B. wanted to know what I meant by the poem, by that word. I wish I could have screwed up my courage and said, “fuck you,” or “what do think I meant?” or “is that a boner in your tan polyester slacks?” but instead I just shrugged, mumbled, and left.

I am interested in stories of humiliation at the hands of writing teachers.

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My top ten quarterly hate list:

1. The term “game changer” especially when referring to Avatar.

2. Criticizing a person for not being on Facebook. What’s it to you?

3. Calling oneself a “technophobe” or “Luddite” as if that’s interesting.

4. The proliferation of Greek yogurt

5. Canceling Law & Order. Where’s the outrage?

6. “Loving” your Kindle

7. J Crew

8. “I have that on my netflix cue,” as a response to talking about a movie.

9. In advance, the movie of Eat Pray Love.

10. That there are no fucking movies to see.

If there’s something I’ve missed, please let me know.

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Last night, when I sat down to write my post, something happened for the first time since I started this long and loving ballad about life and publishing: I was stuck. I couldn’t type a word. In part, I was reflecting on all the comments of the day and thinking about all the thousands of rejection letters I’ve written, cringing to think how many were inadvertently hurtful. Or stupid. In part, I was thoroughly demoralized by a number of work situations that have nearly paralyzed me. In other words, I had what some people call a bad day, followed by a worse night, waking every hour. 2:00 a.m. free floating anxiety; 3:00 a.m. shoulder and neck pain; 4:00 a.m. wishing I had another baby and could spend these pre-dawn hours in her room knowing that all I had to give was the rise and fall of my chest, the cradle of my arm. 5:00 a.m. scale, shower, teeth, hair, tastefully applied make-up; 6:00 a.m. I’m Steve Inskeep and I’m Renee Montagne.

Please do tell me what keeps you up at night.

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Last night, I went to PEN’s annual gala dinner. It was held in the whale room of the Natural History Museum. When I was in college, I briefly worked for party decorator and one of our jobs was the whale room. How is it, thirty years later, I feel as if I better fit in with the wait staff and the young man with a gorgeous crown of dreadlocks frantically trying to get every candle on every last table lit? And I was so unhappy then! All I wanted was to be grown up and have a profession since I decided early on that love would probably not be in the cards. And now that I am here, a person in her own right, what?

The whale is majestic floating above the sea of literary lights. I want to devour it. How many times during the evening did I gaze upon it and then imagine it coming loose from its moorings, crashing down and killing everyone at table 28? With plenty of collateral damage. I see everyone I’ve ever worked for, worked with, sold a book to, etc. Everywhere I look is someone I know. Is it my bat mitzvah, college graduation, wedding, are we in the grand ballroom at The Stanley Hotel? The truth is I am fine. Even enjoy myself eventually. Get a few zingers in. See some people I really like, a few I love, some I loathe. I think only one person snubbed me (and you know who you are).

On the train home I thought about the young man who got me the job doing party decorations with him. He used to call me star maker as he watched me sign my first authors. One night we filled the Roseland Ballroom full of roses.

Are you always who you were?

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I once went out a bathroom window during a blind date. Said date had a cockatoo and exactly one book in his apartment, prominently displayed on his coffee table: U R WHAT YOU DRIVE. He lived on the ground floor in “rustic style” condo development that boasted big bathroom windows. I actually sacrificed a leather jacket I had recently bought at Loehmann’s and left it on his “coat rack” because I couldn’t face him, the cockatoo, or the book. (In all honesty, the coat, like most stuff you buy at Loehmann’s, wasn’t that great so “sacrifice” is a reach.)

Another blind date, a mid town bar, turns out the guy was, shock of all shocks, writing a book. It was called “Coattails.” And, yes, it was about how he got ahead by riding on other people’s coattails.

Next up, a naturalist I had a wicked crush on. He was cute and mean, a toxic combo for a girl with low self-esteem and high expectations. I made of fool of myself for around six months while he kept taunting me with pages that never materialized. And, yes, pages is a euphemism.

A boy I loved in Senior year of high school resurfaces after twenty years with a…manuscript. And to think of those nights on the hood of my Monte Carlo, reading Rilke and talking about suicide. What does it come down to: a manuscript about his dog.

And so it goes. What is the point of this post? IDK. Just a nostalgic rainy evening to steep in some of life’s dreamy miseries and indignities. Got any?

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Trip to London Book Fair is off. All flights have been canceled at least until Wednesday due to the volcanic particulate in the air. And I’d been practicing my mid-Atlantic post Material-girl accent all week. Canceled all my publishing appointments, tea at the Savoy, dinner at the Ivy, the old Tate, the new Tate, the Old Vic, the New Victory. Well, I had planned to write that I would be on blogging hiatus for the week, and now you’re stuck with me. Or I’m stuck with myself. However you look at, check back on in Monday for some great new letters from readers and more wanton vulgarity. Until then, as my British agent always says, I love you and leave you.

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