Not long after that conversation, I dropped by my mother’s internist to get a prescription for a calming pill. My mother’s doctor, a half-retired guy named Dr. Rattner, refused to see me, but the secretary said she could squeeze me in to see his partner, Dr. Klug. I don’t know why, but when the rap came on the examination door, I was expecting Dr. Rattner’s wizened twin to walk in. Instead a chisel-cheeked, healthy, blonde woman, ten years my senior, stood at the foot of the table, ordering me to swing up my feet. I swung them (gladly).

Could you describe your novel?

No, thank you. I’m done making that mistake.

 

Whoa.  All right.

I think of that as your job.  My job was to write it.