Fran, Eating Alone, Reading a Book
That line is from a recent New York Times interview with Fran Lebowitz. It's her idea of a great literary dinner party: Fran, eating alone, reading a book.
It's also the perfect title for an oil painting. Or maybe the next Wes Anderson film.
I skipped morning pages again today. I had a lot I wanted to write about, but meetings got in the way. A solid block of meetings from nine to four, with a few hastily-answered emails in between. I wolfed down lunch in the backseat of a coworker's car on the way to a client pitch.
We're celebrating the toddler's fourth birthday with the family on Saturday and I haven't even gotten him a present. He insists on a Lego train set, but the only one I could find costs $130 and is too old for him anyway.
He also insists on a Spider-Man cake, which we couldn't find at any bakery in town because apparently Spider-Man is no longer in vogue. So he'll have to settle for a homemade cake and maybe a trip to the toy store, and visions of his many disappointments keep circling around my head like the little birds in a Wile E. Coyote cartoon.
Which is why I keep coming back to this image of Fran, eating alone, reading a book. I'd forgo an audience with Sylvia Plath, Toni Morrison and Annie Dillard these days if it meant getting a moment of peace and quiet in which to eat and to read.