On Writing

On Monday I worked on my new book basically all day, pausing only a few times to do the kind of work that I actually get paid for: travel arrangements, phone calls, emails, ego-stroking. Writing for that long -- for me, at least -- is akin to running a marathon in heels, or, strangely, spending the day underwater. When I met my friend Amanda in the late afternoon, so we could go see the new photo exhibit at Grand Central, I felt completely misaligned. In a good way.

I was here, of course. But I was really driving my car across the Mexican border, rubbing a turquoise necklace in my hand; every bead had warmed to my body temperature. I was off to meet my infant son, someone else's baby that was soon to be my own, excited and terrified and amazed.

In a completely humble way: I love what I do.