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Biographer Marion Meade on Dorothy Parker, Dorothy Parker: What Fresh Hell is This?
Around me as I write are dusty piles of books and furry layers of dust; on my floor, hair and pollen, plus old boxes that need to be put out in recycling. In my purse are broken sunglasses; on the table is a pair of winter pants I've intended to bring to the dry cleaners for three months; and in my shower is black-orange mold that laughs daily at my can of Comet and idle threats.
But I'm over 130 pages in to what looks, feels, sounds, smells, and tastes like a new story. I couldn't tell you for sure; I'm somewhat addled by dust that fills my senses like smog.
I'm no Dorothy Parker; not only do I lack caustic wit but I actually enjoy scrubbing things down and making things beautiful. I believe environment, energy, and feng shui matter. My office is blessed with soothing colors--sage green, soft orange--and I enjoy inspirational posters, artwork, and a soft chair when writing at a desk no longer works. But the cobwebs, and that mysterious bug that's hung from the ceiling, and those tumbleweeds of cat hair? They somewhat dim the shine of this well-arranged room.
But my head is down and my senses are deep in the alternate universe I build.
Occasionally I go on a cleaning spree. When a book is done, when a goal is met, things get scrubbed. Till then, I trust my nose has great filters and the body, a strong immune system.
Just don't tell my mother.
