Most weekdays I sit alone in a green room writing. Actually I get interrupted quite a lot . Often by people wanting to be fed. I’m usually outraged by something, and end up falling down a rabbit hole of one kind or another. Those misadventures sometimes show up in my stories. My mother is French, my father is American and they met at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City where I grew up. When I was small we lived in the West Village across from the 6 th NYPD Precinct. I liked to sit at the bar next to our apartment called The Yellow Brick Road drinking free Shirley Temples while the avuncular chaps-clad bartenders got ready to open, or spying on people in the neighborhood, taking notes in one of my father’s reporter’s notebooks.
I attended the now-defunct Fleming School, The Dalton School, then Princeton University. I worked at non-profits including the American Foundation for AIDS Research, occasionally smuggling Elizabeth Taylor’s fluffy Maltese Sugar into other countries. I wrote a book years ago that now seems much funnier in its Turkish translation. I often wonder what people do at night before they go to sleep. I know that they are no longer using their landlines to call me on my landline. I give that the finger. I wish that there were a Food Museum near me where I could taste different eras and places. If I won the lottery, I’d buy every 15 year-old girl a 10-year IUD. And a menstrual cup. I can be counted on to be the first person on the dance floor and the last person to leave it. Welcome to my head.