Busy, busy, the novel’s done and I’m in the query letter process. Next on the agenda is creating an author’s bio which, given I’m unpublished, is proving to be a challenge. So far, the hardest part in all this has been taking care of myself. A couple weeks ago, my writing group fell apart because I objected to another member using the name of one of my characters. He refused to see it was a problem. I refused to let it go. This wasn’t the first time this sort of thing had come up but I’d never fought back. Baby steps, I took it as a sign to finally start pushing the novel. In the meantime, check out this response I got to a query I sent out last week. No deal as such but totally took the sting out of having a story rejected the day before.

“THIS, Ms. Donegal, is some of the most delightful stuff I have read in a very long time. 

(Thank you for sending it to me.)

I wish I could steal your attack for myself ('though don't worry, I'm incapable). 

The pace is somewhat frightening to me, but I'm a Jane Austen kinda reader and I think Damon Runyon is as close as I might get to your self-confident gait.

I'll be looking at it again, I'm sure, when I have more time and fewer worries (and so, who knows when that will be...)

Meanwhile, very interesting stuff. Pure entertainment.

(Who is your agent? Forgive me, I have not been following your career--and am too entangled in other thing to look into it right now-- who publishes it and is your work in print?  

I'd say your work is smart, delightful, clever and (I know I need a fourth, but can't quite put my finger on it).

Thank you again,

I am extremely pleased that you sent me this small piece of your very good work, about that I could not be more sincere,

richard mansfield, editor

EstuaryPublications”

So, Bowie. His loft is in the building where a friend of mine lived, although I never ran into him there. I did see him in Elephant Man, and because of his music and who he was, he’s probably part of my DNA now. But let’s talk about the living. I recently read Patti Smith’s M Train, which wasn’t as much fun as Just Kids, but realer. I’m not famous. There is no dearly departed husband, no children, no royalty checks. But her feelings about the past and her love of my favorite TV show detectives made perfect sense. My first in-the-flesh encounter with her was forty years ago, shortly after the release of Horses, which I listened to constantly. I was in a long-gone all-night diner off of Bleecker Street with the poet I lived with at the time and who I’d hesitate to call my lover. We were bickering over burgers because he’d flipped the insides of his watch so the gears whirled behind the glass instead of the face. It was around 2AM but we had no way of knowing. Suddenly, Patti rushed in and came to our table. She asked to see his watch instead of asking the time and he happily stuck out his wrist. Her confusion was obvious. She bent closer for a better look and glared at him before glancing at me to see who’d bother putting up with him, then bolted out of the door.

Thirty some odd years later, a young woman in very high heels fell as she ran by me while I headed west on Houston towards Sixth Avenue. She was more embarrassed than hurt, although her palms and knees were bleeding. I was helping her gather the things that had spilled out of her bag when Patti, who’d been drinking coffee on her stoop, came to help her too. The young woman didn’t recognize her. She only saw a strange old woman with straggly gray braids and recoiled at Patti’s gracious offer to use her house to clean up. I saw horror in the young woman’s eyes as she ran away. Patti smiled at me, another strange old lady as well as her neighbor. I miss crossing paths with celebrities in Soho, especially the ones who remembered my face from the hood. Surely Patti and Bowie knew each other. Two icons living a few blocks apart, the same age, both Capricorns. Perhaps they'd have tea and discuss their mutual friends Lou Reed and William Burroughs. Another stratosphere, the stars really do look very different, you know.