When I first moved to Chicago, I didnt have any friends so I made a magazine called Little Girl Games. The first issue was about 16 pages, I did all the production myself with an envelope as my straight edge and a Pritt glue stick.
Between the time I was assigned this book to review and the review actually was finished, Judith Moore, the author, died. My editor wrote and told me. It was so outrageous a concept that at first I thought it couldn’t possibly be true, because you see, since I had read the book and thought about it for so long, she belonged to me. It was like learning that my sister had died by reading it in the newspaper. So I went online to make sure. It was true. Stupidly, horribly true.