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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I got a Gmail the other day from a writer in Israel. He said he “found” a copy of the Forest for the Trees on a bench in Tel Aviv. He liked the book, it helped him, blah, blah. What I want to know is: who leaves my fucking book on a bench? Or did he get to the chapter on “what makes editors” tick and, thoroughly disgusted, intentionally leave the book on the bench. He couldn’t even be bothered to throw it out. Or maybe it was more benign, just forgot it, which is even worse in my book. It’s also true that another part of me thought: go little book, you made it all the way across the world.

Did you ever find a book? Or leave one behind?

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When I was a senior in high school, I won a poetry prize of $100. I went to the local bookstore and bought as many poetry books as I could, most just because of how they looked. One of those was Houseboat Days by John Asbbery. I had never heard of him, but I like the woman with the impassive face, elegant dress and oar in her hands. And then I fell in love with the poems. When I was a freshman at NYU, I saw that Ashbery was reading at Books & Co. I had never been above 14th Street on my own, but I braved the subway to the upper east side. The store was packed. Everyone looked impossibly sophisticated. I managed to get inside, but I couldn’t see or hear a thing. It was the best time I ever had.

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