When my mom was a teenager, she decided she wanted to play in the high school orchestra. She went to the music director and asked if she could join. He said, “What do you play?” She, bright and chipper, replied, “What do you need?” He paused, looked at her, and told...
One day, when I was very young, I was upstairs playing in my room when I heard my mother’s car drive off. She was heading out on a shopping trip. I ran downstairs and shouted out for her to Wait up! but she was already gone. I burst into tears. My father heard me...
As I wrote last week, I love to read great mysteries, in part for the language. One of my favorites is Raymond Chandler, author of the iconic Philip Marlowe novels. Raymond Chandler isn’t just influential. To writers, he’s a god. Every modern antihero, from Harry...
A confession: I love to read mysteries. In fact, of all the books I read, on average one a week, a good 70 percent are mysteries or thriller-mysteries. One reason, of course, is the writing itself. In the pages of Raymond Chandler, or Kate Atkinson, or Tana French,...
When I was nineteen I went to Yale. Before you get too impressed, I should clarify. When I say “went to Yale,” I mean, I took a bus to New Haven, walked to the Yale campus, located the freshman women’s dorm — where my girlfriend, who unlike me was an actual...
When I turned 17, I began doing something odd: every few weeks, I would take everything out of my room. Bed and bedding, cello and chairs, stereo, bureaus, bookshelves. Everything. Completely empty the room. And then bring it all back in again — only with everything...
