![]() ![]() ![]() I miss my kids and they’re maybe growing up without me while I try to find a way to support them. We keep accidentally overdrafting our checking account and I keep taking weekend work and night time work and there’s no time to do the thing I wish that I could do. But I read books for months like this, in which everything feels too much, in which kids are getting shot at school and in their backyards the globe is warming Twitter exists. I don’t know why other people read books. I’ve been pulling colleagues into rooms after class and before faculty meetings to whisper to them about her, to convince them to order her books on their phones while we wait on the subway platform after work. I read the Hermione Lee biography and clutched it to my chest when it wasn’t open, walking to my train transfer, trudging from the subway to our house when it was dark and late and I’d just gotten free from my second, night time job. ![]() I don’t always mention the train.Īfter having a hard time finding a book that kept me awake on my commute, because I’ve not been sleeping lately, I sort of dove into Fitzgerald’s books a couple of months ago. ![]() When friends ask me how I’m doing, I give some version of that description. I’ve been doing other things, too, but mostly I’ve been doing that. I’ve been riding the subway and reading Penelope Fitzgerald and crying lately. ![]()
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