Of all the ways that writing as a profession sucks ass, the worst is dealing with the quesition "so what do you do?"
The question is hard to answer because people bring weird mixed up preconceptions to the conversation. Do I earn a living? Huh - would you ask a dental hygienist that question? Anyway: yes. Can you find my books in bookstores? Um. Well. Yes.
Books are often found in bookstores.
Meandering down a Santa Barbara side street in the twilight I was not at all surprised to encounter Andreas, last seen where? Paris? Berlin?
My friends do tend to wander. Though right now I would prefer to have them over for a dinner party at my own house.
Summary, Week 4, Great American Road Trip: I miss London.
I've finished setting up my office:
Now that I own a table, I can throw dinner parties! Though the guest list is strictly limited by the number of chairs. And forks.
In other news, I surfaced from unpacking only long enough to take note of the fact that Stephen Fry claims women do not like sex. Or to be more specific, that they do not typically engage in cottaging. Translation: picking up strangers for anonymous encounters, often conducted in shrubbery or (historically) public restrooms.
The office is the last bit to unpack: abandoned manuscripts! Traces of quixotic careers! Xrays of my fractured pelvis and cracked skull! Photographs of everyone I've ever known loved or hated! What fun.
I heart everything Dieter Rams, but especially the Vitsoe shelves. Lucky me, I couldn't find anything better to hold my books!
