A Real Writer's Imagined Reaction To Her Well-Reviewed Collection Of Stories

All the magazines of importance love it. You can see that in their bites under the flap of the front cover, and on the back, and the face of the first page. They all mention my sentences. My tightness. My brevity.

The sentences are short, because Hemingway's were. The stories don't go anywhere, but that's ok, because they're short, too. By the time you realize you haven't been brought to any emotional depth, they're over.

Another writer of short fiction, himself the owner of praise, has written my forward; he also likes my sentences.

Look at the picture of me on the cover; I'm standing on the beach. I'm pretty, but not too made-up. And here is my dog; he is pretty, too. The wind is blowing our hair, and I'm wearing a denim shirt, because I may live in a New York City high-rise, but my soul is earthy.

Anyway, the dog isn't really mine. My building wouldn't allow that.