Don't Call It Xmas Spirit

But I had a good day.

Last week, I had one of those conversations with a friend about how much harder things are in New York—going to the grocery store, getting an Xmas tree—just a little light fantasy about picking up and moving somewhere slower, somewhere easier. Both of us are native New Yorkers, so you know something astrologically heavy must have been looming. Some days/weeks/months are like that.

This Monday, however, I had one of the opposite kind of days, the ones that can only happen in New York, just chockablock with dazzling guest-stars and serendipity, all without leaving my neighborhood. (All parents of school-aged children know that Mondays are the best days of the week.) One of our booksellers baked cookies. I trapped a movie star in the basement of the bookstore (more on this later). I ran into a friend who I worked with a hundred years ago at BookCourt, one of the most reliably smart and interesting people I know. Then I ran into Adam Gidwitz, the author of the series that my 8 year old and I are reading, The Unicorn Rescue Society, and stopped to talk to him about it. One of my best friends from high school, who I hadn’t seen since before the pandemic started, popped in to the bookstore and I got to hug her and talk about our children and then, when she left, I thought about all the nights I’d spent at her house, putting on Vamp nail polish and smoking menthols and borrowing each other’s clothes. It is such a good feeling to love people when they are very young and then again, still, when they are older. A few friends read my book and wrote me sweet text messages about it. My hands smelled like onions all day because we had made latkes the night before, and even that was pleasurable, a reminder of something delicious. Brian Floca came to sign books and for some reason I mentioned this video, in which Serge Gainsbourg is serenaded by dozens of children dressed like him, complete with cigarettes and stubble, while he watches, weeps, and yes, smokes.

And then, like a dazzling meteorite, this came through time and space from one of my very favorite novelists, consummate father/son/mensch, Michael Chabon. Hold on to your hats, because it’s the best fucking blurb I’ve ever read in my life.

“This Time Tomorrow is a beautifully made, elegant music box of a novel that sets in motion its clever clockwork of delight—then breaks your heart with its bittersweet, lingering song.” – Michael Chabon

Me.

Okay, fine, me.

If you’re still thinking about the movie star in the basement, I want you to answer the following question in the comments: if you could go back in time to your teenage self, where would you go, and what would you eat? You, me, and five bucks. Tell me.

What I’m watching:

Succession, even though it makes me sad. I won’t say too much because I don’t want to spoil it for people, but dang. The profile of Jeremy Strong in the New Yorker is also great. His seriousness is what makes Kendall such a great character, but he sounds quite intense to be around, I will say. Wambsgans forever.

What I’m reading:

Fiona and Jane, Jean Chen Ho.

This debut is absolute fire. Call it a novel, call it stories, just call it. A sexy, hilarious, heartbreaking portrait of two best friends. Out in early January, pre-order now and it’ll be your best Xmas present.

What I’m thinking about:

The last episode of Lili Anolik’s podcast, previously recommended in this newsletter, Once Upon a Time….at Bennington College. It’s eye-opening to realize how much age and power dynamics affect how I’ve always seen these authors, and what they looked like to their peers, and what models they were trying to follow. It is fascinating. Do listen. Not to spoil anything, but there is at least one ‘Donna Tartt as the Bad Art Friend’ essay to be written, by someone.

Pre-order This Time Tomorrow here. Don’t let Michael Chabon be lonely in his feelings.