I ate cinnamon toast for breakfast. I am writing this in my pajamas, which are cute and have cherries on them. I drink too much coffee. I am always cold and wear a ski hat indoors on a regular basis. I like yoga videos. I don't like television. I like to cook. I am a feminist. I always meet deadlines. I hold a grudge. I give good presents. I don't eat meat. I don't wear yellow. I make friends slowly. I am afraid of airplanes. I can not draw.
When I was a teenager, I went to an art school (where I was a leper) and a prep school (where I was popular). Then I went to Vassar, where I went dancing every night and took ballet for credit, followed by Columbia, where I worked extremely hard and nearly lost my mind. Now I earn my living writing.
I am trying to write honestly about the feelings I had when I was a teenager — although not about the things that actually happened to me. (I was never a famous slut, like Roo.) In The Boyfriend List, I wanted to articulate the psychological horror of going to school every day with the guy who dumped you–seeing him with his new girlfriend. And I wanted to describe the kind of microcosm that exists in a small school where everybody's known each other forever.
I write on a Macintosh in a tiny office that doubles as my closet. It has a window. It has a cat or two. I work in the morning five days a week and then run errands or try to exercise. I outline. I revise as I go and then do several more drafts after that. I try to generate at least a page of small-type single space text every day, but I fail a good deal.
I love to read. I grew up loving Astrid Lindgren and Joan Aiken. Now, Arthur Conan Doyle, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Charlotte Bronte, P.G. Wodehouse, Iris Murdoch, John Irving. A book by one of them, and I am set for the day.