Mouchette, a French peasant girl whose name means “little fly,” is a pest to the people around her. Scrunched up and defensive, she clomps through a rough world where words have little value—even the ones that might save her life.
As a closeted teenager, I found expression for how I felt in Éponine’s unrequited love song “On My Own.” Decades later, I still hear that ache in the voices of Linda Ronstadt and Selena Gomez—singers with more than a little in common.
This week, The New Yorker published my letter to the editor about Brooklyn’s Green-Wood Cemetery, a place I walk through weekly, finding new things to discover each time.
At a book critics’ lunch, I reconnected with someone from my very first publishing job—without realizing it at first. What came back to me was a quiet moment of encouragement that stayed with me far longer than she probably knew.
"Oh, so you’re the one all the writers are afraid of!"
That wasn’t how I saw my role at all. In fact, the idea had never crossed my mind. Suddenly, I felt like a great big monster with no idea how ugly he is until people start screaming and running away.