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It's a funny time for me—taking care of all variety of client work while preparing for two literary talks. The first is tomorrow, the fall gathering at Bryn Mawr Presbyterian Church, and I've decided to reflect out loud on something I've sometimes alluded to here—the role that truth plays in the fiction I write, and the ways in which fiction can lead one back around to the truth. I'm going to read from Nothing but Ghosts in the end—a scene that couples up and crumbles together a trip I once took to Cascais, an utterly made-up librarian (except that she has a best friend's name), and my adoration for the moon. "The moon is gigantic," the chapter begins, "a big white throb in a blue-black sky."

On Saturday I'm keynoting at the Push to Publish conference (for Philadelphia Stories at Rosemont College), and so I'll be speaking there of the road I've taken through the various channels of publishing. I started small—literary magazines. I bumped up against enormous resistance ("your books are not commercial"). I've received advances for some books, no advances for others, some have surprised their publishers (in good ways) and some have disappointed. I have a new book that is circulating at this moment. Its fate is not secure; I still have my heart up high in my throat and likely will be living like this for a long time. Publishing is hard work, emotional work, bruising work. I'll be talking about all of that, too.