Sign posted around town.

One wet day

Interview with me

I kept meaning to post this, and I didn't.  So here it is, from a lovely blog.

http://sarahprince.ca/2012/05/caren-lissner/

We were allowed (and encouraged) to go off on a tangent in this class (high school).

I wrote this one summer when I was home from college.  It was around '91.  I guess I was just a bit bitter...

Getting an agent: What are the odds?  (Eek!)

I just got my new issue of POETS & WRITERS, a pretty good writing mag that has a large section in the back full of writing contests, retreats, etc.  Anyway, the latest issue has a story about a day in the life of a literary agency.  Take a gander at these words:

Folioroughly a hundred thousand queries a year, or slightly more than two hundred queries every week for each of the nine Folio agents currently accepting unsolicited queries. ...Hoffman, for his part, took on four new clients in the past year, only one of whom came to his attention via an unsolicited query -- meaning that, in an average year, the odds of an author without connections finding representation with Hoffman are one in 11,111.

Holy mackerel.  I figured maybe an agency gets 200 queries per week (I heard that number years ago), not 200 for each of nine agents. 

I think a lot of this has to do with the relatively recent trend in being able to find and contact agents via e-mail, which is pretty much how everyone does it these days.  Several agents have blogs, too, making them more visible easy to find than in the old days.  It used to be that you had to go to the library, pull a hulking director of agents and publishers off the reference shelf, sit at a table, and make notes on what their preferences were (and the book was often a year or more out of date anyway).  Maybe you'd start with a few agencies to contact.  Then, of course, you had to print out your manuscript (or a few chapters) and mail it with a self-addressed stamped envelope.  Then you'd wait months and get the whole thing back with a three-line form letter.

Now, you can spend a few minutes on the internet and shoot your query off to a bunch of agents if you want to do it that way.  It's no longer a process that weeds out the less-than-dedicated.

I'm glad I managed to get published before things got this way -- I don't know if I'd have ever gotten an agent if my chance was 1 in 11,111.

(If anyone is reading this and seems daunted, good writing will always catch someone's attention, so don't give up.  Also, if you lack "connections," attending a writing conference is a good way to meet agents.  Then you can say in your query letter that you met the person at such-and-such a conference, and it helps.)

Grade A Baby Eggs

I recently went to the Book Expo of America.  It's held in New York every year for three days, and it's a wonderful place to bump into your writing/publishing friends, see what the hot new books are, talk shop, and pick up free goodies.  There was a lot more energy this year than last year and many more interesting books, so despite the economy, seems to me that there is still a real enthusiasm out there for publishing.  Perhaps it is electronic publishing and self-publishing that's fueling some of the excitement.  In any case, people are still excited about books.

One of the books that caught my eye was called Grade A Baby Eggs.  It's an infertility memoir, and the author was there giving out free plastic eggs with silly putty in them as well (hey, you do what you can for publicity!)  I chatted with her for a few seconds about baby-making in your 40s and I told her I'd mention her book on my blog.  It's about the least I can do when I snag a free book that's of interest.

Her book really is interesting -- optimistic but not sugar coated.  She got remarried around the age of 44 to a guy who'd been a lifelong bachelor.  His parents were in their 90s and waiting forever for him to continue the family legacy with grandchildren.  She already had two daughters, but the couple wanted a child together.  The book takes us through every step of her journey, and it 's very realistic rather than having an ending in which a baby pops out suddenly with no work or mishaps.  There are hormone injections, disappointments, scientific trials, etc.  I'm not going to give away what happens.  The couple has to make some hard choices.

Here's the author's website, which has some fun links:  http://gradeababyeggs.com/2012/05/grade-a-baby-eggs-wins-book-award/

Turning literary rejection into success

Sometimes you write a manuscript, it gets rejected by agents and publishers, and eventually you realize it wasn't as good as you thought, but you were too close to it to see the flaws.  And then there are other manuscripts that kick around inside your head and tell you they deserve life someday, even if you need to take time off and eventually rewrite.

Here is a wonderful blog entry: http://indiereader.com/2012/06/how-amazon-saved-my-life by a woman who wrote a young-adult book that drew some great feedback from publishers.  But no houses were willing to take it on.  She had so much faith in it that she decided to self-publish it...and it actually has done well!

The truth is, most self published books won't find much of an audience.  And sometimes books get rejected because they're simply hard to get through.  They may mean a lot to the writer, but they're not interesting or readable to anyone else.

But there have been a few success stories, and nowadays, thanks to the new trend in electronic publishing, even semi-successful, agented authors are turning to self publishing.  This way, they get more input into their cover art, their design, their marketing.  The essay is interesting reading for anyone who's ever had a manuscript he or she just didn't want to give up on:  http://indiereader.com/2012/06/how-amazon-saved-my-life/

I had a bunch of stuff I wanted to write about.  Like having a baby.  But I haven't had time.  And I still don't.

Teachers

Congratulations to all my teacher friends who are getting to the end of the year.  I have such respect for teachers - and not just because they perform such an important role in society.  It's because they always have to be on the ball.

Most of us, if we are having a rough day and still have to go into work, can at least hide in our office or cubicle.  You can't hide if you're a teacher.  Who wants to break up with their boyfriend and then spend six hours in front of 100 12-year-olds, pretending to care about Farewell to Manzanar.  I'd rather have a job where I can duck behind my computer if I need time to myself.

So, to teachers everywhere:  Thanks for what you do.

Happy June

Might as well republish my essay about eighth grade graduation in Holmdel, N.J.  It has appeared here before, but anyway:

(Note: All names have been changed to protect the obnoxious.)

“Oh my God!” my mother said to me.  “The other girls are wearing $300 dresses!  Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

It was June of 1985, and my family was sitting in our Chevy Citation outside of my junior high auditorium, the car idling as it faced a brick wall.  I was there for my eighth grade graduation.

We had moved at the beginning of the school year to a wealthy central New Jersey town:  farmy Holmdel, home to CEOs and actors’ offspring.  We were already planning to move away, because we just didn’t fit in.  One year in Holmdel was enough.  We lived in the only “poor” development in the town.  It wasn’t actually that poor, but it was old and across the street from Hazlet.

In Holmdel, the biggest insult occurred when a boy accused a teacher of buying his ties at K-Mart.  Your parents had to own a new Porsche or comparable vehicle if you wanted to fit in.  You were uncool unless you wore Guess jeans, Madonna bracelets and oversized fluorescent “Frankie Goes to Hollywood” shirts that said “Frankie Say: Relax! Don’t Do It!”

            My mom watched the girls enter the gymnasium doors.  “Maybe we should skip this,” my mother said. “I’ve never heard of someone wearing a $300 dress to a junior high graduation.”

I was shocked.  She was letting me skip a school event because it might make me uncomfortable.  When had that ever happened?

And why didn’t it apply to anything religious?

But I was resolved to go through with it.  I was tired of not standing up for myself.  At school, I was teased for being shy, and I never knew what to say in response when kids picked on me.  I mostly turned away and looked at the ground.  I never had good comebacks – until hours later, when I was home.

But now, I was going to go in there and stand with the others, no matter what.

            Holmdel, New Jersey is 56 minutes southwest of Manhattan.  It’s a place of horse farms and six-bedroom homes.  The median household income is $112,879.  My parents had moved there because the schools were top-notch.  The only place we could afford to move into was the one middle-class development with 100-year-old homes that were close together.  We paid $800 a month to rent a three-bedroom house.

At school, I frequently heard kids discussing which company their parents owned, and the fact that some of them were related to movie stars.  One day, our health teacher was lecturing about cocaine addiction, and she asked, “Has anyone heard of the actress Lauren Tewes from Love Boat?”  A girl raised her hand and said, “She's married to my uncle.”

            Another day, our eighth grade English teacher was discussing stereotypes.  “Let’s face it, we live in Holmdel,” she said sarcastically, walking across the room.  “We are rich snobs!”

            I didn’t laugh.

*      *      *

           

I made my way into the auditorium in my simple light blue dress.  Shhh, don’t tell anyone, but it was only thirty-nine dollars at Bamberger’s.  You wouldn’t know the price by looking at it; it was pretty nice, just fine for a junior high graduation.

All of us girls clustered backstage, around a giant cardboard box of corsages for us to choose from.

Most of the popular colors were gone.  But I noticed one light blue corsage near the bottom.  It was exactly the color of my dress!  I snagged it.

When I looked up, Stacie Sasser was staring at me.  Stacie had thick wavy black hair and freckles, as well as a giant gold STACIE necklace.

She turned to her friend Alyssa and asked very loudly,  “Are there any blue corsages in there?”

Alyssa looked at me pointedly and then peered into the box.  “No,” she said.  “I don’t see any blue ones left.”

“Blue is really the only color I can wear with this dress,” Stacie said.

“You’re right,” Alyssa said to her.  “Blue is the only color you can wear with that dress.”

They both looked at me.

I waited limply with my blue corsage in my hand.  “You can have mine,” I said.

“Oh, thank you!” Stacie said, snatching it.  “That is soooo nice of you!  Alyssa, isn’t that soooo nice of her?”

“That is soooo nice of her,” Alyssa concurred.

I felt much better than if I’d kept the corsage and been hated.

            We wandered around the heavy black curtains to the stage.  The boys stood on one side, the girls on the other.

I remembered some of the things that had happened that year:

            I remembered that several of the boys told a fat kid in our class that he “reeked.”

I remembered a blonde skater-boy wearing an Ocean Pacific hooded sweatshirt that said “No Fat Chicks.”  Even then, I sort of thought someone in authority should talk to him about that.

            I remembered a popular girl stealing a box of M&Ms that an unpopular girl was selling for band, and no one saying anything.  She took it out from under the unpopular girl’s chair during class, and several people saw it.  She winked and smiled at me when I noticed her doing it.  For a moment, I felt cool.  And then, kind of bad.

I remembered a girl looking at me in art class and saying, “Ooooh, I looooove your shoes,” just to mock me and amuse her friends.

            I remembered our social studies teacher catching two girls passing a note ridiculing his pants.

            On the stage that afternoon in June, in Holmdel, New Jersey, we launched into our chosen graduation song.

            “We aaaaaaare the wooooorld!”

            “We aaaaare the chiiiiiiiildren!”

            “We are the ones who make a briiiighter day, so let’s start giiiiiiiving!”

            “There’s a choice we’re making, we’re saving our own lives.”

“It’s you who make a better day … just yoooooooou and meeeeee!”

            After we angels finished up, I scooted off the stage and went home to finish packing to move. 

 The END OF MY COLLEGE CAREER, Part II: THE UNEXCITING CONCLUSION

To read the more interesting Part I first, go to: http://www.addledwriter.blogspot.com/2012_04_01_archive.html#7767805703886587017

       On or around January 5, 1993, I tried to get into my dorm, but this time, my ID card didn’t work.

       The security guard at the front desk looked puzzled.  “You live here,” she said, and buzzed me in.

       After that, I would slip in through the visitors’ gate when the guard wasn’t looking, or if I happened to see someone I knew, I asked them to sign me in.

       Classes stared again, but not for me.  I was a woman without a campus.  I kept sleeping on my roommates’ couch.

Soon I looked in the campus paper and rented a room for $275 in an apartment with a chemistry grad student who lived three blocks off campus.  I took the subway downtown to Odd Lot and paid $30 for a futon and hauled it back and plopped it on my rug to sleep on at night.  All of my life’s possessions were in a few boxes.

I had managed to save a little money over the past summer and from my new job.  For $1,000, I bought a Macintosh Classic, my first computer.  That way I wouldn’t have to keep going to the library to write and to update my resume, or to work on my fiction.  My new roomie said that her ex-roommate was a writer and had used a discarded door that was left in the hallway as a desk.  I found the door, positioned it on top of two milk crates, and stationed my Macintosh on it.

       From then through May, I went to my internship in Trenton twice a week, and worked at a heavily windowed building on Arch Street in downtown Philly for the other three.  The building was near the Ben Franklin Bridge and I enjoyed watching the light bounce off the cars heading to New Jersey each morning.  I wondered when it would be my turn to leave.  I sometimes took the train to New York for publishing job interviews, even though the three-hour trip each way on commuter trains was long and expensive.  I also had time to enjoy the Penn campus, going to more club meetings. 

       I landed a few second interviews for jobs, requiring me to head back to New York on the train.  I found out that the Helmsley Hotel had bathrooms on the first floor that you could access without staying there, so I often used them to freshen up before an interview.  I walked all around the city in heels because it didn’t dawn on me to use sneakers and then switch.

In May, a girl I knew who had graduated from Penn the year before me had a room for rent in her apartment in Weehawken, N.J. for $330 per month.  $330 per month!  I could afford that.  It wasn’t in New York, but commuting would just mean paying a dollar for a shuttle bus through the Lincoln Tunnel.  There was even a view of the Empire State Building from the apartment bathroom.

       I hadn’t realized there were affordable ways to live so close to New York City.

I finished my internship in Trenton, gave notice to the disability job in Philly, and loaded up all my stuff in a junky used car to head north.

       I lived in Weehawken for three months, temping and still looking for that full-time job in the publishing mecca of New York.  During the recession, it was difficult to find any work, and I was competing with every English major on the planet – including women who had taken the fabled Radcliffe Publishing Course.  The jobs started at $17,000 to $23,000.  One job as an assistant for a literary agency was paying $16,000.

       Luckily I had the typing skills to secure lucrative temp assignments.  Even though the agencies insisted on testing us on typewriters, I clocked in at 80 words per minute.

But three days after I moved to Weehawken, I got sick.

I was sitting at a temp job in my navy blue suit and having chills.

At home, my insides felt heavy.

       I looked up the doctors who would take my insurance.  There was one a mile away in Hoboken, a city I’d never been to.  My dad had mentioned that it was becoming known as a hot town for young people just out of college.  It was a mile square in area and directly across the water from midtown Manhattan.

       I headed out in my car.  When I got there, I was amazed.  A mayoral election was being held.  Since I was interested in politics, I looked around curiously.

       One group of people was clustered around a huge electric sign that said “Big election today.”  Folks were yelling at each other across Washington Street, the main thoroughfare.  Also on that street:  Brownstones, historic buildings, bars, restaurants.

       The doctor examined me, asked for a urine sample, and said I probably had hepatitis A (the kind you get from eating contaminated food).  I figured the food trucks of West Philly were to blame.  The doctor said I would have to stay home for several weeks to recover.   It was my first full week on my own in (well, near) the big city, and now I couldn’t earn a living.

       While I was home in bed, my roommate, who worked for a publishing company, brought me freelance editing assignments to do.  I revised my novel.  I wrote forlorn letters to friends, most of whom did not have e-mail yet.  Summer got hotter.

I got a call from a young editorial assistant at a publishing company in response to a book I had submitted.  She said her company was interested and not to send it anywhere else.  Yesss!  That was welcome news.  It was a book full of lists of Gen X pop culture called “The Twentysomething Fact Book.”  But in the end, nothing came of it.

       Eventually I started temping again.  In September, I moved to Hoboken, taking an apartment share for $375 per month.

       Over the next few months, I worked at some long-time temp assignments and even got a job with a Democratic political consultant in New York (more on that another day, maybe).  That job came to a crashing halt when the consultant failed to pay his bills.  I kept looking for something in book publishing.

       In spring, more than a year after I’d graduated, a full-time job opened covering Hoboken for the town newspaper.  It was, in some ways, more alluring than publishing:  I’d be dealing with fact rather than fiction, what I wrote would have an impact on people’s lives, and I could walk around town during the coming summer and get to know my neighbors.  I was tempted to take it.  But as usual, I didn’t make things too easy for myself. I told myself that I should continue trying for a publishing job in New York, even though I kept jumping through hoops.

       I thought about the reporting job.  I could spend that spring and summer doing something I loved.  Why kill myself trying to commute to the Big Apple every day when I could cover Hoboken?

       But was I dooming myself in the long run, since I’d gotten a bit turned off to journalism in college?  The career progression would be to move from a weekly to a daily paper, and I really didn’t want to write about murder and crime for a living.

       In the end, I took the job.  I got a new apartment and it happened to be just four blocks from the newspaper office.  I pinned the painting of the dove on a bulletin board on my bedroom wall.  I’ve been in Hoboken ever since.

       

Mother's Day

 I want to wish a happy Mother's Day not just to mothers, but to anyone who wants to be a mom someday, and anyone missing their mom. Even though this holiday makes many people happy, there are also plenty of blog posts from people around the 'net who say the holiday reminds them of something sad.

 I have known many people who wanted to be mothers but who struggled with infertility. I also have read many blogs on this topic (folks struggling with infertility often keep blogs as a way to get support, and sometimes even to stay sane while undergoing so many treatments, rounds of IVF, etc.) Wanting to have a child isn't like wanting a fancy house or vacation. It's something that can affect every moment of your life, every hour of the day, every ounce of your soul (just like actually having kids does). A desire for a child/children is very deep and visceral. I read a blog recently by a woman who waited a long time to have kids, then realized how badly she wanted them, but she couldn't get pregnant. Her husband was fine with the fertility treatments, but at one point he griped to her she was "obsessed." I have seen that sentiment before. More people would have that "obsession" if they weren't able to conceive so easily. The majority of younger people have no problem getting pregnant, and so they never have to face questions like, "Why isn't this happening? Why do I want kids? Should I stop eating dairy/drinking coffee/drinking soda? Should my husband eat walnuts every day because they're supposed to help his fertility? What's wrong?" Most people who want kids just have them as a matter of course. So for a woman who is denied something that is so visceral, if it's important to her she is going to think about it often. Fertility treatments involve dozens of tests, shots, etc., so it's a big undertaking for a couple.

 Once you have kids, it changes your life, so remaining in a holding pattern waiting for it to happen no matter what you try, that's a tough thing. You might not know how much money you need to save for treatments, etc. So anyone who deeply wants kids should have the right to think and talk about it constantly without being dismissed as "obsessed." It can be part of a person's being, not just a physical thing. And it can be painful. Especially around Mother's Day.

 Why did I get off on this tangent? Maybe because as an older mom (and one who's very lucky to be one, at my age!!), I've come into contact with lots of people my age who have told me stories about infertility.  Maybe because I've seen one too many cruel internet comments blaming women for their infertility (I admire Giuliana Rancic for having the guts to talk publicly about her struggles; it's too bad that when she does, she gets comments on the 'net like "She just needs to put on five pounds" "She should stop working" etc. Yeah, it's really that easy and she just hasn't thought of that yet! Oh, and then there's the "just adopt." While adoption is a fine option and very rewarding, it's not easy, financially, emotionally, process wise, so not everyone can "just" do that.)

So happy Mother's Day to everyone with love in their heart - uncles, aunts, people who don't want their own kids but think kids are kinda cool anyway, nannies, teachers, dads, people who feel very alone, and anyone who for some reason is still reading this. Spread your love on this holiday, even if it has nothing to do with motherhood. Even if it's just by feeling happy with the choices you've made in life, and wanting that happiness for others too.

 PS: For those who don't want kids, there is of course nothing wrong with that either. There are enough kids in the world.

Been there

This morning, I went outside with my daughter to go pick up some stuff at CVS.  I realized there was a young woman (early 30s? 20s?) kind of poised on the bottom of our stoop, balancing a box of Bud Light cans on the railing for the steps.  I said, "Oh, do you need me to hold the door?"  She shook her head no and said she was going up the street.  She had just stopped to rest for a second as she made her way home with the heavy box o' beer.

I kind of smiled.  I remember those days.  She's probably a single girl, living with roommates, and they're planning a party tonight.  She's independent and didn't ask anyone to help her with the heavy beer.  But she's still gotta stop every block to rest for a second.

That was me a bunch of times, not necessarily with beer, but with some heavy item, knowing I'd get it back to my apartment even if it took me a little longer.

No particular place to go

       When I was a student at U. Penn, there was a homeless woman who would stand on Locust Walk – the brick path through campus – and ask the students, “Hi, would you buy one of the paintings I’m selling to support myself?”

The “paintings” were photocopies of her drawings of animals.  She had probably made them two blocks away at Kinko’s, and she was selling them for eight to ten dollars each.  But I always felt bad for her and I vowed that once I wasn’t broke, even if it took until graduation, I’d buy one of her paintings. 

And sure, it’s possible she was on drugs, but I don’t see drug or alcohol use as a good excuse not to help the homeless; anyone who stands on the street and asks for money still has a worse life than I do, and the money will undoubtedly make him or her feel a little bit better, no matter where it goes.  Who am I to judge or  make assumptions?  Anyway, she was someone’s daughter, maybe sister, maybe even their mother.  And it’s not like I was giving to her every day – I just figured I’d do it eventually.

       But I was pretty broke for all four years at Penn.  On weekends, when there was no dining service, I ate strawberry milk and a banana at Wawa for breakfast and a $4.25 Chinese dinner from the LeAnh Kitchen truck at 36th and Walnut.

I typed people’s papers to make extra money.  I was a pretty fast typist, having honed my skills throughout high school because I knew they'd be needed if I wanted to be a writer someday.  I posted flyers around campus to find clients.  Every dollar mattered.

       In the same vein, I took five classes each semester instead of four so I could graduate from Penn a semester early, thus saving tuition and getting into the real world earlier.  Being an English major, it wasn’t too hard to graduate early.  I just had to take the major requirements, plus the core curriculum, and write my 25-page thesis (it was on Virginia Woolf.)

       So in December of 1992, a semester early, I was officially a graduate of Penn.

       Except.

Except that I had nowhere to go.

       I’d been taking the train to New York to interview for publishing jobs, but hadn’t landed one by graduation, and I didn’t think I could afford to live in New York just yet.  But that’s where I’d always wanted to be:  In publishing, in New York.

       Just before graduation, two opportunities opened in the Philadelphia area. 
         My roommate told me about a part-time job as an assistant to a paraplegic woman downtown who ran a non-profit disability advocacy organization.  I had the typing skills and the time, and it paid $10 an hour, which was plenty back then.  The job was for Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, which would still give me time to pursue job interviews and other opportunities.

       At the same time, I had interviewed for an unpaid internship in the State House in Trenton, with Gov. Florio’s speechwriters and press aides.  The Clinton election had made me more interested in political communications, as had some great courses with Kathleen Hall Jamieson at the Annenberg school.  I hadn't thought I could afford an unpaid internship, but the coordinators said I could do the internship Tuesdays and Thursdays if I wanted to, and skip it when I had job interviews in New York.  Very tempting!

But I felt like I should go to New York and try to begin a career, not slack around Philly.

However, my heart wanted me to stay in Philly for at least for one more semester.  Deep inside, I wanted to do the internship.  I wanted to work on Arch Street for the disabilities advocacy organization.  And I figured I could enjoy Penn like I hadn’t before when I was constantly studying, reading, and writing papers on The Heart of Darkness.

I wasn’t very good at listening to my heart back then.  I was better at preparing for the future.
But I told myself to give myself a break for a change and do what I really wanted.
Ultimately I decided to stay in Philly.
But now that I had graduated, I was supposed to leave my dorm, and I didn’t actually have a place to live.  No one formally kicked me out of the dorm suite I was sharing with two roommates, and they hadn’t assigned someone to take my place yet.  As long as my ID still let me in the building, I kept sleeping on the bumpy plaid couch in our living room.  I’d already packed up my sheets, pillow, and everything else from my old bedroom, in case a new roommate arrived. 

Winter break came, and I was set to start my internship and my job downtown. I stayed on campus after almost everyone else left – not knowing what was to come in the next stage of my life.

It was a bit boring and lonely on campus with no one else there.  For the first half of winter break, my ID still let me into the dorm.  Christmas came, as well as the day after, and every time I slid my card through the reader, it still worked.  I went to my part-time job by day and took the elevator up to our empty suite at night.  I was saving money to eventually live in New York.

Sometimes I journeyed to the Penn library after work and stayed past 11 p.m., printing out my resume to send to publishing companies.  Sometimes I printed out my novel in progress to send out as well.

       New Year’s Eve came and I was alone in my dorm room.  I took the elevator to the roof, to the lounge that had windows all around – a panoramic view of Philly.  I looked at the lights twinkling on the office buildings.  There was a couple holding hands at one end of the lounge, and soft red couches and chairs facing every window.  It was quiet.

       I didn’t see a reason to stay there getting depressed.  I decided to get out and see a movie.

       “Home Alone 2” was the biggest movie out at the time, and it seemed fitting.

I went to my dorm room and pulled on my winter coat – it was freezing as it often is on new year’s eve – and headed downstairs.

       I took Locust Walk to the edge of campus and crossed 40th Street to the theater.

       Home Alone 2 was uplifting.  I don’t remember much about it, but it involved a homeless woman and it had a happy ending that involved turtledoves.

In fact, the dove was a symbol all the way through the movie.

       After I finished watching it, I shoved my hands in my pockets and headed back to my dorm room.

       On Locust Walk, a woman appeared. 

“Hi.  I’m wondering if you could buy one of the paintings I’m selling to support myself.”

I finally had some money to give her.  I was starting to be financially independent.

       I looked at the woman’s paintings.  Right on top was one that surprised me.

       It was a painting of a dove.

       I paid her eight bucks, brought it home, and stuck it on the dorm room wall to remind myself that I was lucky.

Jackets at the playground, Hoboken, N.J.