So I continue to be obsessed with what version of lymphoma Wendy Wasserstein had. I can’t find anything anywhere, other than “complications of lymphoma.”
It’s making me a little bit nuts. I thought about writing something about it myself and then having the excuse to call and ask people. Did she have the same doctor as me? When Susan Sontag died at Memorial her doctor spoke to the press. Is it the hospital where smart pioneering women go to die? Or just so many people with cancer that you can pick and find any pattern you like? So today all I can think about is trying not to die myself. Trying to stay healthy until I die of creakiness, in a sweet drift of knowing in my sleep.
The book is trudging. I have a new schedule and a new philosophy. First thing in the morning and don’t talk about it, respectively. I never realized how awful it would be to casually mention I’m working on a book only to have people ask what it’s about and if I’ve got a publisher, and a title, and a plan for the rest of my freaking life. Okay, so it’s totally understandable. But I’m just bragging. And trying to show people that I’m not “just” a freelancer. But I’m stopping. I see why writers are so secretive about their projects. It’s a damning business doing something that’s interesting. I think I’ll just say I’ve been changing printer toner or answering phones for the Department of Boring. Do I sound ungrateful and wretched? Just crabby. It’s all gray out there. And I need lunch. And I’ve got deadlines. And my mortality is glowing like ET’s chest.
