Please forgive me. I’ve been staring too hard at a person I’ve hated my whole life. I’ve been enjoying the sickness that comes with thinking your work might be good. I’ve asked the gods to watch me fold your shirts, smooth the collars, collect the lint into my fat fist. I’ve had blackened fish and gin and tonics with the juice of eleven limes. Please forgive me I forgot all about you, forgot about myself, put on a Broadway show and handed out the programs. Yes, I see floaters. Yes, I can’t sleep. Yes, I always hold the door open even when no one is there.

If you’re still there, please catch me up.

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I applied to four MFA programs. I was rejected by three. I wasn’t hopeful waiting for that fourth letter. In fact, I was morose. I remember going to the Second Avenue Deli by myself. The waiter looked at me and said, “It can’t be that bad.” On the walk home, I told myself that if I didn’t get in and stopped writing that it was on me. I couldn’t let a college tell me if I was a writer. I got in. I had a nervous breakdown. I finished. And never wrote another word of poetry. Good story?

What’s the point of this story?

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It had to happen. Five a.m. roll call. Do you know where your keyboard is? People always ask me how I get it done, full time job and writing. I hear in their voice some astonishment and revulsion. I don’t blame them. I also hate people who are productive and smug. I once had breakfast with the then CEO of Random House and he told me he got up at four, read the WSJ, NYT, and Financial Times WHILE ON THE TREADMILL. His cuff links were gold skulls. How I do it is I get up at five. And I don’t look at email until 10:00. When I finally look at my email, I refer to is as breaking the seal when the voices and needs of my clients come rushing in and I put on my apron and fill the pockets with seed.

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Where have I been? Where have you been? Who was that woman across the aisle certain she was on the wrong train? Did I help her? Did I help you? Yesterday the coffee cost less than today. I hate people who say live in the present. One day at a time. Forgive yourself.  I don’t ever want to talk about the weather. I don’t need to live life to its fullest. Half full is plenty for me. Is the next stop New Rochelle?

Where have you been?

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I did a talk at a Bridge Club today. During the break,  a woman approached me when I went to get a cup of soda. She said, and I quote, “I could have written your book.” Of course, she meant that she related to it, but she kept saying that phrase, “I could have written your book.”

What should I have said?

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There was a review of Philip Roth’s new collection of essays in the NYTBR over the weekend. It quoted Roth as saying something to effect that he was lucky because he didn’t care about happiness. First reaction: brilliant. Second reaction: DB. But I keep thinking about it. Does an artist care about happiness? Or more to the point, does caring about happiness diminish or embellish your ability to work? What is happiness, beyond Twinkies and sordid sexual encounters? Is caring about happiness related to caring about what other people think? Is happiness even a thing?

Do you care about happiness?

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I can’t post tonight because I am watching the Emmy’s. I am an award show junkie. I don’t care how long, stupid, or ridiculous they are: I love the stars, the speeches, the faces of the losers. I have been writing some version of my acceptance speech since 1972.

Who do you thank?

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GUYS!!! I’ve been blogging for like seven or eight years and WordPress made us an Editor’s Pick today. I have no idea what this means except that they probably ran out of people to pick, but I’ll take it. I also want to share that I like to eat pizza while walking outside, I like to watch men check out women on the street, I am never happier than when a pair of shoes actually fits me. I am not going anywhere. I drink fate-free, caffeine-free diet coke and not because anyone forces me. I for real love to play bridge. And this tiny little mole of a nod to the blog made my day.

What makes your day?

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I’ve never talked about this, but I always think about it. How can we worry about our own stories or poems when hurricanes are destroying homes, when missiles are being launched, when the arctic is melting, when children are starving and dying when cancers are ravaging bodies, dementia destroying minds. How do you feel your work matters in the face of so much pain and suffering in the world.

How do you find meaning?

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The only way I get any fucking writing done is if I get up at five. I’ve always envied “full-time” writers, though most writers have to supplement their writing with work. It’s like the 1%. I also know that I’d probably wind up face down in a swimming pool if I tried. I’m incredibly disciplined, but my stability has always depended on having the responsibility of work. I don’t think that’s going to change in my lifetime. Nose still pressed to the bakery glass.

When do you get any fucking writing done?

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