St. John's my middle name. The books go under M.
So there was this one time when a reporter from the New York Times came over to my house and we talked for a while about Station Eleven and the end of the world. When the piece appeared a few days later, I was so flummoxed by the whole thing that I tweeted it with a glaring grammatical error that I didn’t even notice till the next day, because I was too preoccupied with feeling badly that I hadn’t mentioned my amazing publicist in the tweet. Incidentally, it is an unshakeable rule of Twitter that the tweet with the glaring grammatical error is the one that will get RT’d the most.
The tour starts next week. This is the last weekend at home until November. It’s very hot. The kind of humidity where the floors feel damp and the doors won’t close properly. I hope it isn’t this humid everywhere I go, because I’ve already thought through the tour wardrobe.
The last line of the New York Times piece, taken out of the context of the book, seems like something to aspire to throughout the course of one’s life: “She never failed to notice what was beautiful in the world, even as it was falling apart.”