She held up the pad, its pages blistered by layers of black ink, laced with cross-outs and insertions. I observed the neatly made daybed, the desk stacked with books, the overstuffed easy chair with white lined pad and rollerball pen perched on its wide arm. I expected an invitation to fuck off, but Christina laughed and invited me in. Are you working?” I blurted with characteristic tact. One night, summoned by the dinner bell, we met up at our studio doors. At age 38, while raising three sons, editing other people’s books, and teaching college classes, Christina had already published five books. Some colony-goers are slackers, but Google had ruled that out. Within hours, I was wondering about the absence of sound from her side. IN 2002, I met Christina Baker Kline at an artists’ colony our studios shared a wall.
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