I Write On Weekends, On

I Have Nothing Against Canada. I Think That Canadians Might Know The Secret To All Existence, But To Us It Just Comes Off As Timid And Kind And Too Nice, And It Strikes Us As Lacking Edge. Unless You Are Hijacking Someone And Going On A Reality Show With Your Eight Kids And Wearing A Velour Pink Pantsuit, Then You Have No Edge To Us.

Yes. I Am Writing Full-time. Which Is Strange. It Feels Like Not Having A Job.

As Most New Yorkers Have Done, I Have Given Serious And Generous Thought To The State Of My Apartment Should I Get Killed During The Day.

Book Tours Are Such A Little Tapas Meal Of Where I Could Live.

Because, Ten-year-olds Of The World, You Shouldn't Believe What Your Teachers Tell You About The Beauty And Specialness And Uniqueness Of You. Or, Believe It, Little Snowflake, But Know It Won't Make A Bit Of Difference Until After Puberty. It's Newton's Lost Law: Anything That Makes You Unique Later Will Get Your Chocolate Milk Stolen And Your Eye Blackened As A Kid. Won't It, Sebastian? Oh, Yes, It Will, My Little Mandarin Chinese-learning, Poe-reciting, High-top-wearing Friend. God Bless You, Wherever You Are.