Thursday, August 1, 2013
I also love how, even now, he sends his stories along—episodes from a cast of well-considered characters, tear sheets from urban America. He'll write thirty pages some weeks and send them my way. The emails arrive long after midnight—the best thing in my bank. As I read I picture him making room for this quiet art in the midst of the life he's built—the job he loves in the city he always wanted to live in, the friends that arrive in abundance, the walks he takes along the Hudson at night, the texts he sends, his calls.
In the midst of all that, somehow, he writes.
And in the mornings, when the tales arrive, I am so glad he does.