This is an interior photo of the big Rue, looking uncharacteristically unpopulated. Besides Miss S and various other neighborhood characters, the main things I’m going to miss about my old neighborhood are the big Rue and Sophie’s Ice Cream.
Packing yesterday, I found some old stories and essays. The fiction was pretty good on a sentence and paragraph level. The essays were a little more coherent as a whole. But they reeked of unhappiness. I think I’m a better writer when I’m miserable—I write compulsively in an attempt to exorcise the pain.
I’m happier now, but it’s not like life is a perfect dream of bliss. Surely I can scrape up enough disgruntlement for an essay a month, first one due the end of August?
In yesterday’s NYT, there was an article about a chick blogger who blogged her way into a big book deal. She’s a girl-about-town in NYC with thousands of readers. I don’t know if my life is glamorous enough to interest that many people. Not enough sex, as MM helpfully pointed out.
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