The office is where I am these days; that is, the 113 year-old bar in the Centro with my laptop and my cell phone and my glass of vibrant orange Crodino. I’ve officially become a great big ball of novel-writing momentum, which is why I’m there and not here with ye would be-pigeon eaters but honestly? A month and only one of you said “ahem.” Also? I blogged almost every day in April and, again, none of you came. Also still? I’m averaging a chapter a week and am so, so, so incredibly happy about it that I think y’all can sit down and just eat your grits already.  For the first time in years, talking about my novel doesn’t make my throat close up with panic. I’ll tell anyone about it, in any language I speak. This is confidence. This is full steam ahead. This is a straight tunnel instead of a forked road. My friend Piercarlo says: Will you publish it in Italy? And I say: No, because it’s in English. And I feel comfortable saying that – a strict yes or no – instead of, Let’s see if I even finish it, or If anyone even wants it. Pigeon got her groove and, anyway, this is where I am these days. At what has become my haunt.

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