Scott, my companion of many years, insists on calling them endorsements. My friend Carolyn tells me that “Mailer (and probably Hemingway) wrote their own and disguised the blurbs as the publishers’.” She seems to be an expert on the topic. I think it feels like I’m turning myself inside out—begging for praise for the book I spent so long writing. Instead, I’ll concentrate on the Fargesia sp. ‘Rufa’ bamboo that arrived today from Portland, Oregon. Food for pandas, just the right size to fit in the hole left by the last clump of bamboo that flowered and died. It’s light green right now and fanned against the wall when we wrangled it out of its cloth bag and fit it into the damp soil. Yesterday, two gardeners planted three new inkberry bushes for the pots in front of our narrow city house, the huge Blue Wave hydrangea transplanted to replace another clump of bamboo. All this is soothing, and a lot like writing when the structure of the book snaps into place. Just like how the book I’m writing about Anna Caselberg found its shape this morning after Scott suggested a three-part structure and sorting the pieces like a puzzle.
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