That's me in my happy place: on a couch, snuggling with my husband, with a wine-reddened face.
I like to have fun. And I like to relax.
I believe these to be the two main reasons I haven't written a novel, despite getting an extremely expensive MFA in Creative Writing and telling everyone I knew for basically a decade that I was "halfway finished with my book." (To be fair: this was true).
Dan has the same problem which makes us a bad match, in a way (and a great match, in another way--don't we look happy?).
But now that I've reached the midpoint of my thirties and have brought a human life into the world, I'm starting to get bummed out by how little I have to show for all this fun and relaxing. Not that I haven't been working hard; career-wise I've done all right. But I would like to be able to pull a book off the shelf to show my daughter my work, as my father did to me. I would like to show her how cool it is to create something from the scratch and then see it all the way through.
But I also reeeeeeeeally want to sit with my husband on a couch and drink a glass of wine. Or a nice Belgian beer. Or a cocktail.
Do you and Diana Krall ever curl up for some buzzy conversation and a Better Call Saul, after you've put the twins down?
I doubt it. How could you produce so much work, if so? And I know you don't drink; I read somewhere that you "just stopped one day and didn't miss it," which, having survived nine months of pregnancy-enforced sobriety, is mind-blowing to me. You and Diana probably sit thigh-to-thigh on the piano bench and trade fours until it gets so brilliant, someone has to start recording.
Photo by Bridget Farmer
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