Here again

You may have noticed that I am writing every day. I may or may not have made a New Year’s resolution to write a post first thing each weekday morning. Let’s none of us make too much of this, or I may get paralyzed from the pressure, the horrible pressure. Think of me like a frightened baby bird. Hold out your hand (palm up! PALM UP!), avert your eyes, remain quiet and still, and we’ll see how this goes.

Hey, have you picked up the January issue of Redbook yet? My first column is in there. I am quite pleased with it. The illustration was drawn by Victoria Roberts, the New Yorker cartoonist who, Scott observed, "makes everyone look like Cynthia Ozick.

I was going to write about something else, but now I'm completely entranced by the Cynthia Ozick interview, in the link above. (Have you guys ever read The Puttermesser Papers? If you haven’t, I recommend you get right on that.)

Let’s hear what she has to say about being called a woman writer, shall we?

People often ask how I can reject the phrase "woman writer" and not reject the phrase "Jewish writer" -- a preposterous question. "Jewish" is a category of civilization, culture, and intellect, and "woman" is a category of anatomy and physiology. It's rough thinking to confuse vast cultural and intellectual movements with the capacity to bear children.

Hmm, might one think believe "woman writer" is analogous to “mommy blogger”? MIGHT ONE? Discuss.

When asked what she thinks about not yet having her “breakout book”:

The whole concept of a "break out" book comes from a market mentality. It's an idea that has never occurred to me, and is nowhere in my frame of reference. I may be naive or old-fashioned, or a strong combination of both, but it seems to me that the promotional aspect of writing, though it may certainly affect the writer, doesn't belong to the writer. Someone has given me a gift subscription to Publishers Weekly; it reads like a Martian publication. All I care about is writing sentences.

Sing it, sister!

On the Internet:

My computer came with a modem, but it's under the dresser. I wrote a diary for Slate but had to trot over to the copy store early every morning to send it by fax because I don't have e-mail. I am very much an outsider to this technology, indifferent to it.

I was relieved to read this last part, because I was beginning to worry that she might stumble across my Cynthia Ozick/Joan Didion slash fiction. But it appears my secret remains safe. For now.