Between the end of one book and the beginning of the next, a woman lives.

I’m not exactly sure who she is.

I think she’s funnier when she’s writing. I think she’s more interesting. I like what she sees. I like what she dreams. I think she’s a little bit nuts. I like her that way.

To be in that no-woman’s land between one book and the next is to stand in an unsettling place. It is, at once, full of terror and possibility. It is populated by strangers. By improbability. By uncertainty. It is not yet real. It is a new city in which one has no friends, no favorite restaurants, no landmarks by which to tell east from west, north from south; where not even one’s own phone number is reliable in the mind.

All the glass here is poorly tempered. These windows to the self are likely to shatter if touched in the wrong way. There are potholes in the streets that fall away into nothingness. One must be careful here. One must tread lightly. Voices are loud. Actions are unpredictable.

It is a very big city. I am very small in it.

It will take time to make friends, here. Trust will have to be earned. Imagination will ask for room to move in; space I may not, initially, be willing to offer it. But for now…

Hello, me. I’d like you to meet…me. She’s an okay person. Once you get to know her. Once she gets writing again.

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