My older son who is, I think, here tonight, is forty-one years old. Which is odd because so am I.
I write five pages a day. If you would read five pages a day, we'd stay right even.
Joan organizes our social life, and on weekends I follow her around.
It was not just that Ross Macdonald taught us how to write; he did something much more, he taught us how to read, and how to think about life, and maybe, in some small, but mattering way, how to live.
She found me intolerable. But she got to know me, and I wore her down.
Well, you give me too much credit for foresight and planning. I haven't got a clue what the hell I'm doing.
Teaching is too strong a word for whatever it was I did at Northeastern University.
