A picture of morning. Not this morning. Yesterday. This morning is still dark.

At what age does a life become dispensable? (From my novel THE AGE OF THE CHILD, which asks that question in its own way.)

The closed door is supposed to keep her from distracting me when I’m writing. She, this adorable mutt, is why I went to Starbucks to write my last book.

I've had cats all my life, but none are as missed as much as this one. Which makes me feel really guilty re: my other cats. (Parents with a favorite child must have it easier because they usually die before their kids do, removing the post-death "should have loved them more while they were alive" self-flagellation.)