“You should be careful with your bag,” Jessica says to me. “It’s heavy.” “I will be, sweetie,” I tell her. “And don’t poke yourself with that pen.” “I’ll be careful,” I tell her, tucking the pen in the bag. Not comparing her to a helicopter parent or pointing out that
Someone I know has to meet the woman who destroyed her family and is now the stepmother to her children, and put on a smiling face to do it. Her ex wants her to stop in and say hello when she comes by to pick up the kids one day, and she said
I’m on the phone with a friend of mine who lives in New York, and she mentions that she ran into a novelist she knows who lives down the street from her—“It’s New York, after all”—and I say, “Yeah, you can’t swing a cat without hitting a writer.” Jessica is listening
“I hope the house is not on fire,” Jessica remarks, coming into the bedroom where I am folding laundry. “What?!?!!” I shriek. “There,” she says, pointing. “That looks like a flame.” It does, but it is simply a scrap of red metallic paper that has fetched up against the wall,
I introduced Jess to the wonders of Mary Poppins (the movie) the other day. And here is how our conversation went: Jess: This is such a good movie! Did you watch it on DVD when you were a kid? Me: We didn’t have DVDs when I was a kid.
You know, I try to give y’all helpful advice for living your creative life. I carefully craft action steps, things to do to help you in your creative work. And? And I get these gentle notes: “Well, it’s fine. Really. Really. It’s just . . . they’re not Jessica stories.”