sleepyhollowjacks asks: I was reading your chain of tweets about Paxil and had a question. One of the conditions that...
The man at the deli counter gave me a piece of cheese to eat while he sliced my cheddar so basically I’m in love.
I’m a finalist for the L.A. Times Book Prize for Fiction! Alongside my dear friend Lauren Groff, Michael Chabon, Ben Fountain, and Lydia Millet. All of whom are obviously amazing writers.
I’ve never been nominated for anything before.
This is an inelegant response but…I’m pretty fucking psyched.
Book clubs and readings, yoga, sushi, and one of the most searing headaches I’ve had in my life that lasted straight through two business meetings and one dinner. I was not exactly myself that day, but you don’t always get to be yourself. Sometimes you have to be someone else.
I’m drinking too much coffee. All I do is drive everywhere, and when I arrive at my destination, I talk about myself for a while. Still, I am having fun! The response in the book clubs has been intense, to say the least. Everyone has an opinion about these characters. I like hearing what people have to say. Please keep talking to me. I love that people care even a little bit.
My film agents told me they would send me the first season of “Girls” because I do not have cable anymore and I think they pitied me. So that is something to look forward to when I return home.
And finally: Last night’s reading was the jam!
At LGA, the TSA agent and I greeted each other heartily, like we were old friends, joker types, ready for a good laugh. We both had big, curly hair. I think that was the connection. Wild girls.
In DC, the TSA agent told me she was blessed.
At LGA again, the TSA agent flirted with me a little bit. He gave me his regular old smile and then a follow-up smile. Gorgeous, big lips.
In Minneapolis, she was runny-eyed and red-skinned and her hair was a faded blonde, feathered, and down to her shoulders. I imagined all her tragedies and resented everyone who had broken her heart on her behalf. And then I forgave them.
At LGA a third time, the TSA agent made me take off my sunglasses I had been wearing to hide my hangover. “You going to make it?” she said. “Maybe,” I said.
In Austin, he was young and his skin was smooth and he had a beauty mark in his dimple and his hair was spiked with gel. This job was nothing to him. He cared only for the weekend.
LGA: No nonsense, barely a glance, not even a hello. So stern. Sir. Why won’t you say hi to me? Please say hi to me.
In Chicago, her finger waves were perfect.
At LGA, the last time, I will admit I did not even pay attention. I had my eye on the prize and that was it. Get me to Maine.
At the Portland airport, a TSA agent stood back a bit and watched us all as we waited in the security line. I looked up from my phone and greeted him. He had round, gold-rimmed glasses. He smiled at me, motioned to my phone, and said, “I’m waiting for the day when you all have humps on the back of your neck.”