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.

Every So Often, Wow.

Okay, first of all: the cover is genius. Perfect for public reading. This cover makes eBooks weep. Second of all, the plot is so subtle, yet so tense. And the writing. Oh. Oh. Oh. So simple, and yet so not. The last chapter absolutely stunned me with its tensile power. Myla Goldberg, the only thing that would make me more jealous is if you are Natalie Goldberg's daughter.

The lost art.

At the urging of a friend I started another blog verysincerely.com This one is devoted to letters, which I'll add periodically. Happy to write one on any topic anyone needs, just ask.

Six word novels.

How long does it take to write a six-word novel? (If you're Hemingway, probably a minute; me, longer.) My attempts, presented in chronological order. I think I improved.





Left me. Took wheelchair. Still crawling.
Bet the house, lost the showgirl.
Around his neck: Purple heart, noose.
Abandoned. Adopted. Abused. Pregnant. Scared. Repeat.

Weigh in. Share yours. Have fun.

Making Breakfast.

It begins on the day she is born: A mother making breakfast for a child.
There will be rituals: clock, bottle, cloth.
There will be equipment: bowl, pitcher, curved silver spoon.
Then, just as astonishingly as it began, there is an end.
When do you stop making your child breakfast?

My girls have assembled their own breakfasts for a very long time. This is, after all, a skill. No one wants to send their child to college unable to fry an egg.

You wake up one day, and this simple act of daily mothering is gone.
The steel cut oatmeal, the frittatas, the whatevas – these become weekend treats.

Which is all fine . . . until I realized my oldest daughter, a senior, would soon be eating breakfast somewhere other than home.

My friend Ellen--who has a girl the same age--and I decided to spend this last school year cooking breakfast for our daughters.

While the rest of the house sleeps, we reconnect with the simple pleasure of whisking eggs and swirling blueberries into muffins. There are new favorites now: yogurt layered with strawberries, honey and granola. Asparagus and cheddar cheese omelettes. Hot rice cereal with cinnamon.

Will she remember I did this for her? I’m not sure. But I will remember.

I will remember watching her lift the spoon to her mouth.
Just as I remember all the other times, in the low pink light of sunrise, standing by her high chair with the kitchen clock ticking in the background, I lifted the small spoon for her.