No word.

My favorite time of night, there is no word for. Past sunset, pre-moon, when the sky approaches navy but still shows an occasional streak of pink or gold. Last night it struck me that this is how the middle child feels, sandwiched between the flashy orange and the needy stars, whispering: look at me. Aren't I pretty, too?

___ in ____

An icon for writing a novel: uu in L Translation: butt in chair. (Aren't you relieved I am only showing you one side of that equation?) Forgive the lack of content this summer. Occasionally tweeting @kellysimmons. Even more occasional blogging. I'm butting-in-chair-ing as fast as I can.

On Book Binding

My mother and father didn't read books, they read magazines. So while I can attribute my magazine obsession to them (from Oprah to People to The New Yorker to Rolling Stone) my book obsession I attribute to boredom, and confusion, and the desire for a safe haven in a complex childhood. This article in The Times today about a son's book club with his dying mother, touched me tremendously even though I couldn't relate to doing it with a parent. There is something very precious about a tiny book club of two. I've felt this way with my friend Suzie, who has incredible taste in books, and my sister, who is the only person who understood all the reasons I sobbed over The Lovely Bones. Book clubs aren't for everyone. But the right book can bind you forever, and give you memories as vivid as a shared vacation.

Book Club Decorating

I love it when book clubs do something to celebrate the book. Yesterday I visited a group of 3 combined book clubs who decorated with bird houses in honor of THE BIRD HOUSE. A simple thing, but it warms my heart. Another group who read STANDING STILL served french fries because the lead character, Claire, was obsessed with them while she was kidnapped. Love.

On doing stand-up.

When Jim Breslin asked me to be a guest storyteller at West Chester Story Slam's April gathering, and tell a story on the theme "Rise Above" -- I was okay with it. Gulp. Glasses aside, I'm no Tina Fey, but there were no tomatoes thrown.

Two Great Novels in a Row.

How is this possible, that I just read another book I adored? Here is the sparest of premises: a professor overhears a therapist and patient speaking in the office next door. Overidentification ensues. Brilliantly written. Unbearably simple yet historically rich. Thank you Ellen Ullman for much-needed distraction -- and inspiration.

Just a reminder.

Sometimes where you need to be is right where you are. And it isn't at the computer.