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.
I thought of the lamp that was not plugged in to anything;
then of the boy who looked like Pig Pen, blinky and dense,
then of Linus and Schroeder, of the ferocity and poignancy
of our illusions. You think a blanket will protect you?
That you are really making lovely music on a toy piano?
But the blanket did protect Linus; and Schroeder does
play beautifully; and maybe more than anything, they
keep at it. They believe.
-Anne Lamott, The Gospel According to Pigpen
