Catch up on Garrison’s near-daily missives from New York, where he is sheltering in place with his family
I loved sitting and admiring Erica Rhodes on Zoom last night from a comedy club in Minneapolis.
The reason to write a novel is to say what you think in a form that allows enormous freedom — you can put the thoughts in different characters.
An exciting day, editing galleys and I’m down to the last twenty pages. The end is in sight. An author has to be a tough critic, especially an old one.
A lovely evening on our New York terrace made even lovelier by the host, 77, arising from his chair, tripping on it, losing his balance, then stumbling over.
Who can explain why conversation flows thick with some people and thin with others? For one thing, with true friends, you’re not so bound by orthodoxy.
Father’s Day, what shall I do? A burnt-out bulb to unscrew? Does the A/C compressor need repair? Yes, sir, Soon as I find super glue.
My family is extremely considerate of the writer in their midst and during the quarantine they disappear into corners of the apartment and let him be.
I’m in quarantine and not about to march in the street, so what’s to be done? Listen, read, pay attention, and send money to places where it’ll do good.
The family’s up in Connecticut at a cottage where they can breathe salt air and the old drudge is at work at the kitchen table, drinking coffee.
For political science, schools could begin by teaching the story of systemic racism and how it was legal, enforced at all levels of government. History and literature need to be overhauled.