28 March 1995
I’m sitting on the floor of Teresa’s apartment, our apartment, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes. My plan for writing is to pop with Teresa, write new scenes for the end of my novel while she runs, walk to work with her, go to the Nordstrom Cafe and drink 25 cent coffee while I rewrite my novel in the sun. It will be my office.
I also need a job—something easy and lucrative. And everything I have experience in, I never want to do again.