30 Days

I threw the tea pot out the window.

It plummeted three floors and shattered into a hundred white porcelain pieces right behind Mrs. Epstein, whom I had never much liked anyway.

“Hey!” she yelled up at me.

“Sorry,” I said, hanging half my upper body over the sill. Then I turned back inside, grabbed half a dozen tea cups and dumped those out, too.

I wasn’t that sorry.

You wrote a novel about a suicidal artist, Clementine Pritchard, who has 30 days left to live. Are you on meds?

I did take a little something for sinus drainage this morning.

 

No, seriously.

In all seriousness, mental illness of one stripe or another runs in my family. Having experienced close relationships with people who are struggling, I was interested in writing about the effect of the illness not only on the patient but on those who surround her. The domino effect is what was really fascinating.