I was thinking of that beautiful essay by Joan Didion about the Santa Ana winds.

There is something uneasy in the Los Angeles air this afternoon, some unnatural stillness, some tension. What it means is that tonight a Santa Ana will begin to blow, a hot wind from the northeast whining down through the Cajon and San Gorgonio Passes, blowing up sand storms out along Route 66, drying the hills and the nerves to flash point. For a few days now we will see smoke back in the canyons, and hear sirens in the night. I have neither heard nor read that a Santa Ana is due, but I know it, and almost everyone I have seen today knows it too. We know it because we feel it. The baby frets. The maid sulks…

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From whence came the term “creative nonfiction”?

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This weekend, I’m deciding between beach, art museum, beach, art museum. Maybe both?

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In a few weeks, I’ll be reading in Hoboken at the DeBaun Center and then in Princeton, NJ with Amy Lemmon.