Lunchtime.

Mid-way through the day's writing, I often take a walk. Not a power walk. Just a stroll. Today I was reminded that even in autumn, winter's colors assert themselves. I swear I smelled evergreen.

Happily, Foolishly, I Dance.

As I once explained to the dude at the Genius Bar . . . part of my social media strategy is to make an ass of myself. So when I told some folks recently that I did a dance whenever I hit 100, 200 or 300 pages, they extracted a promise from me. I hope they are happy now! Watch and weep.

On ephemera.

Something about being around footprints and sandcastles makes me think of the importance of permanence to a writer. We don't write our novels on train trellises (trelli?) or bathroom walls. A novel is not graffiti, just waiting for the inevitable painting over. We expect novels to last, because they take so long to write, build, bind. And yet. Have you ever been at a campground and witnessed someone throwing away the first half of a paperback to lighten their backpack? This is what e-books are: the lightening of our loads. The cleanliness, the refreshment of that is what tempts. But by making novels electronic, have we accidentally pitched them forward, light-speeding them, pinballing ahead? Do e-books force plots to go faster? Do they make sentences slide by before we appreciate them? This is how the journalist feels, the here-today-gone-tomorrow. Are we doing this now, with novels? Or are we betting that the experience will last, even as the form mutates?

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.