Writer/editor. New Mexican tumbleweed blown east to skyscraper country.
Right now, I am working on a book about F. Scott Fitzgerald, Sheilah Graham, and Hollywood in the 1930s. It will also contain a lot of drinking, powder blue suits, dances at the Cocoanut Grove, betrayal, gossip columns, crazy ladies, secret Jews, film lot moguls, and Dorothy Parker quips at funerals. If the world is still around then, it should be out from Random House around 2014. So let's hope the Mayans were wrong.
If you want to say hi please do. Or find me in short form, here.
And she travels to Boerum Hill, Brooklyn. Brick walls. One big, bright red wall. Red cabinets with white little knobs. It’s sort of like a dream dollhouse, except for someone me-sized. Never underestimate the power of a new apartment as a clean slate in life. Unsplattered canvases are ever so rare.
To quote little orphan Annie, I think I’m gonna like it here.
Plus I opened my computer and Internet magically appeared.
Much to be thankful for this weekend.
