Five Years a Writer

If a genie were to grant me three wishes, I would be satisfied with having only one, my first wish: To be safe, to be always safe. If I knew that life would neither bring me harm nor put me in danger’s path, I would happily walk down any street, talk to any stranger, accept any offer. What I fantasize about is the safety characterized by Cat Deerbon’s farmhouse kitchen, warm from the Aga and cozy with Mephisto the cat, sleeping on the sofa; by Jill Crewe’s cottage kitchen with potatoes cooked over the fire and the ponies settled outside in their snug stable; by the unhurried Sunday lunches in a Joanna Trollope novel, where time is made for good food and conversation.*  I read fiction only marginally for the plot; it is the characters I really care about and it is their development that keeps me engaged. Write me a character who is smart and sensible, kind and generous, brave and capable — write me that character, and I am your reader for life.  In my own real life, however, the plot