There are lots of fucked-up things about living in New York City.

Aside from the exorbitant costs and the weather (tho, hello, November, you've been soo pretty) and the 1 percent  and the double joy of the rising subway fares and cut service and the sudden ubiquitousness of the artisanal hotdog, and the snooty people, there is the bass-akward way things go if you ever want to move. You cannot simultaneously sell and buy a new place like you can apparently elsewhere in the country. You sell, which is its own brand of headache (meet your building's board). Then you pray. Or move into a rental. And try to buy.  And pray some more. Which is what we are doing. Which is why I've been, as one friend puts it, the Mayor of Crazy Town.

It was traumatic for all. My daughter Willa has written a book about it. I'm the redhead. She's the brunette. We are both crying. The book is nonfiction.

But, there is a sliver of redemption at the end of this story. And this too is true. A week after the first move, we're in a large one-room studio, all four of us, and it's okay. I'm sleeping through the night for the first time in months (for this, I would like to bless the white-noise app on the iPad. I LOVE you, gentle rain sounds). I'm closing in on a first draft of my novel and hope to have it done by the end of the month, almost like a NaNoWriMo draft. Willa nailed her book in one go. Here's how it ends.

Love.

Love.

Love.