Wednesday, October 6, 2010
You find a quiet place in which to think, for one thing.
And you call your son, a genius at titles, among other things, who, years ago, when a certain untitled book was a day away from final catalog copy, called out to you, from where he was writing,
But Mom, he said, isn't that book (a memoir about marriage to a Salvadoran man) about how there is still love in strange places?
Still Love in Strange Places? you said.
Yeah, he said. Something like that.
Two minutes later you were on the phone with Alane Mason, your W.W. Norton editor. We have a title, you told her. She didn't skip a beat. She agreed.
Late last night, you called your son.
I need another miracle, you said.
Give me a day or two, he told you.