Five years ago today, my husband and I signed the papers on the property that we now call home. I remember that day well, how nervous I was, already second guessing myself and fearful that we were doing the wrong thing. It was a gorgeous October day much like this one, cloudless and crisp, just a few leaves left on the trees. We finished the closing and drove up from town, to our new land and our dilapidated little cottage. Sitting outside that autumn morning next to my reluctant partner in this enterprise, sipping a coffee from Nonie’s, I tried…
Every year since my younger son Jack was three or so, we have tried on Halloween masks together. It was always Jack’s holiday, the plans for some elaborate costume taking shape weeks in advance, the scarier the better. When he was really young, he was happy to go trick-or-treating in whatever sweet little outfit I dreamed up for him–a tiny vampire, a tiger, a pumpkin. But the age of innocence didn’t last long. He wanted to be terrifying. Whereas Henry was content to paw through a bag of cast off clothes or to grab an old dress out of my…
Sixteen autumns ago, when my younger son Jack was a baby, I took a writing class in Harvard Square. Wednesday morning was the high point of my week. I would riffle through my closet, trying to pull together an outfit that wasn’t stained with spit up and that didn’t shout out “suburban housewife,” the babysitter would arrive, and I would jump into my car and head down Mass Ave., thrilled to have an excuse to buy a new notebook and a nice pen, to be out and about without an infant in a stroller or carried on my back, happy…
“You ought to Twitter,” my book publicist told me months ago. ”No thanks,” I said, “it’s just not me.” A month later, a friend advised the same thing. ”Want to reach out to your on-line market?” she asked. ”I’ll help you get started.” Once again, I demurred. I wasn’t exactly sure what Twittering was, but I didn’t think I needed to know either. But when a writer friend from California told me how many book people she’s met through Twitter, I began to reconsider; she is not a high-tech junkie, she’s a serious writer who is making good use of…
It’s been a month since The Gift of an Ordinary Day was published. No bestseller lists, no rave reviews in the New York Times, no calls from Oprah. There are still a lot of books stacked up on bookstore tables across the land. And yet, to my mind anyway, the book already feels like a success, thanks to all the readers who have discovered it, read it, and then taken the time to write to me and say, “I’m glad you wrote this book, and I’m glad I found it.” Sitting on the couch in my kitchen all those months…
