My writing clothes
are weird– maternity jeans (my son’s eleven), a speckly Harvard sweatshirt, tennis socks with pom poms, circa 1988. My best friend writes in his pjs. We have to wear whatever keeps us in the house, whatever keeps us anti-social. We are shut ins. The original shut ins, like the elderly or criminals on house arrest. Ten days to do proofs for WOMAN WHO NAMED GOD. Nothing can tug or pull or be uncomfortable. Who cares if I spill? Besides, if I look too nice, I’ll drive to the store. Any store. Today, my partner or boyfriend or whatever it is you call people you live with when you are middle aged, asked me if I thought I should change my socks. Or, perhaps brush my hair.