Author Information

Articles by this author:

  • “Which reminds me, I should check on the Twinkies,” I told Amy Zerner on Saturday. I was at an end-of-summer dinner party hosted by the glamorous grande dame of crime fiction, the English novelist and screenwriter Lynda La Plante.
  • If you introduce yourself as a writer or an artist, people assume it’s not just a hobby, but your profession. Lots of people have sex, for example, but until you’ve gotten paid for it, you’d be lying if you answered “prostitute” next time someone asked, “What do you do?”
  • I was 6 when Victor, who was 11, offered to teach me how to bat. I stood behind him in Ibsen Court, where we lived, watching as instructed, as he swung through and all the way back to my eye. My brothers led me home as I cried, and I had to start first grade with a shiner.
  • On the one hand, being called a commodity, a thing to acquire or trade, is degrading, no matter how many camels you say you could get for me. On the other, I'm an old-fashioned girl still on the marriage market, brought up by Greek parents who've alerted me to the danger of letting my stock go down.
  • August in the Hamptons is a scourge of elegance. As The Star’s Lady Columnist, countless invitations cross my desk, and deciding which glamorous event to attend and write about is a trial by ordeal.
  • Col. Randolph Bresnik, a NASA astronaut who had been commander of the International Space Station, delivered a talk before a series of photos from his various space missions, most of them of the Earth viewed from the space station, most of them, not looking out, but looking back.
  • The older I get the less interest I have in travel, which, let’s face it, is just an exotic type of commute. While friends roam the globe in search of adventure and strange sights, I prefer to stay home; you can cover a lot more ground by going nowhere.
  • Party. To Party. What does it mean? What does it require? What elusive substance is it that marks the difference between attending a party and partying in the verb?
  • “You’re Holly Golightly on the outside, and Kafka on the inside,” Frederic said over the phone. “I’m a cockroach!” I hiccupped, tears streaming.
  • Part of the appeal of going out in your early 20s is that you never kneow where you’ll end up. You start at a bar, maybe, arrange yourself in line of the wind, and put your sails up.