Author of the novel WHEN YOU LOSE CONTROL

The corner Dunkin Donuts every Saturday And grape Bazooka Joe bubblegum on Sundays  Drives past Maki's and Nichols and Stone  Afternoons at the bank with the metal minute man That tiny yellow library with Memphis Design chairs  A hundred-year-old chocolate store  The pond where I learned to swim  And the theater where I saw my first movie  The Cumbys is gone, and so is Pleasant House of Pizza The chair remains, once the largest in existence Sometimes this little city felt like the entire world

"Holy shit, why is one of my grandfather's mugs missing!?" "What do you mean?" "I mounted my dead grandfather's irreplaceable, Giovanni DeSimone original, very-valuable,  and deeply sentimental mugs to the kitchen wall, and one is gone!" "Oh, I used it." "You fucking what!?" "Jesus, it's a mug that was in the kitchen, so yeah, I used it. And before you get pissier, it's in the dishwasher." "Those are not dishwasher safe, you fuckwad! And those mugs are wired to the hooks they're on! I spent like an hour mounting them so they couldn't be moved or used; what the shit?"  "Well, sorr-y."  "Oh yeah, you fucking sound it."  "Christ. Guess I can't make a mistake or use a mug in my house?" "As always, you're missing the goddamn point! And all your grandparents are alive, and fuck you! You don't understand!"  "It's a cup, so fuck you."  ...

How do you not see the breadth of what you are?  That would be like music not knowing why it needs a lead guitar. Or the sun not understanding its importance in the sky. You are everything and more; how can you not see why?  The totality of you leaves me in tremendous awe and wonder. Your eyes, your poems, your being, oh, the spell you have me under!  Your strength and kindness, your humble, gentle ways,  I have not one doubt you are my love, my companion, my always for all my days.

I often think about my grandmother's sun-drenched living room curtains. They were sheer and white and fluttered outwards in the summer when the breeze would float in through her second-story window. Gram washed the curtains regularly, but somehow, they always smelled of dust. In the summer, they'd absorb the smell of the window screen, and linen, dust, and thin metal would create a strange, light, aroma. I liked to sit in the sunbeams that would pop up on the cheap cornflower blue rug in that living room. Those little rectangles were perfect for a warm nap. The big desk between the windows would be my pillow, my knees would be against my chest, and the curtains would slowly dance across my side, wafting that scent, the one that became the smell I associate most with summer. Those sunbeams never felt as good in the spring, and I can't imagine napping on Gram's floor now.

"Are you mad at me?" came the ludicrous text from my mother. I had just replied to her with answers to her questions, and she took that as anger. Of course she did; everything was negative with her. Her job was too hard, her nights too short, and life was miserable, even when it wasn't. No one can play the victim like my mother. Well, anyway, Mom, let's see. Am I mad at you? I was mad at you when you laughed at my drawing, in front of my teacher, in first grade.  I was mad when you told me I could have a kitten and then weaseled out of that promise.  I was mad when you got mad at me, an eight-year-old, to the point that when we ate dinner that night, you sat as far away from me as possible and wouldn't even look at me. Wasn't I the child?  I was mad when you ignored me, called me a bitch, and openly, obviously, favored my younger brother, taking every chance to tell me I was a bad kid and horrible big sister.  I was mad that you were my mother, that I got stu...

The house I grew up in was cold in every sense of the word. My discount quilt was polyester and itchy and somehow provided no warmth. It was a hideous beige, trimmed with a solitary pink stripe and bow. It had been picked out by my mother, who didn't care that I craved comfort or that I hated pink.  When I'd cry out that I was freezing or needed a different blanket or just more blankets, for fucks sake, I was told, in an annoyed voice, "Just stick your hands between your knees or under your armpits." We moved to a colder apartment in a two-family house with frigid grandparents years later. The grungy dwelling was like an ice box, and my mother, now in menopause, really didn't care about the inhumane temperature. "You're old enough to put on a second sweatshirt."  After college, when the economy was trying its best to emulate the great depression, I eventually found work at a condo management company, working for two misogynists. They were such big, t...

In the 11th hour, my publisher (correctly) suggested that I rewrite my novel in the present tense. I am 18+ hours into this project. I have 25 pages to go. I unintentionally put myself to sleep while working on this edit this morning. It's the right direction to go in, but oh my god, this is the third time I've written this book. Well, third complete time, anyway. There's been quite a bit of editing and rewriting in the last 26 months. As I grow closer to finishing this (hopefully) final rewrite, I keep singing these Weird Al lyrics in my head; "Then tonight we're going to party like it's 1699!" I will have this done by tonight, and I will party like it's 1699! Loopily, Melissa