My best friend lives in the suburbs of Chicago, in the house she grew up in, with her mom and stepdad. There are lots of birdhouses in their backyard. We basically have nothing in common anymore, but when we were twelve we were both severely underweight and looked like demented trolls (okay, I was the demented troll; she was more like a stunted elf), and then for a while in high school, we encouraged each other's eating disorders. Anyway, tonight she wrote me: "Apparently you never got the memo that I am going to die like Emily Dickinson."
I spent five hours copyediting 12th Street yesterday, and thirteen hours today. Add those up and stop making me feel guilty for not having time to hang out with you.
My foot might be sprained, but it's been hurting for a week and I keep thinking if I just "tough it out," it will stop hurting. It isn't swollen and I really don't think it's broken. I'll tell you what's true in my novel, and it's that the narrator keeps wishing she'll come down with some crippling illness, so she can live with her parents forever, and no one will ever expect her to get better.