I’m back in New York City for like 10 seconds — long enough to do a reading at the Borders in Columbus Circle tonight. (See how I worked that in.)
While I’m traveling I’m basically an isolated, sentient point hanging unsupported in space. But now that I’m actually home it occurs to me that practically nobody reading this blog has any idea who the hell I am other than that I’m the guy who wrote the Harry Potter book that has sex in it.
(I’m still waiting for a newspaper to use the headline “Dirty Harry” for a review. Come on guys. it’s just sitting there.)
I don’t blog about my personal life that much, because it’s inherently creepy and anyway who cares. But! If you’re curious, here’s my character sheet.
I live in Brooklyn. I bought a too-big, too-old brownstone there last year. The neighborhood is called Clinton Hill, which nobody knows where that is, but just start in Fort Greene and walk towards the sound of small arms fire and you’ll get there.
I am 40. So I remember the world before Harry Potter and the Internet. But I don’t remember when the Beatles were together. But I did have a bad haircut in the 80s.
I’m a dad. My daughter, Lily, is 6. The two words she would use to describe herself are ‘cute’ and ‘fierce.’ She looks like this:
That’s her with the wings. I don’t know who the hell that guy is. Watch the hands, buddy.
Lily’s mother and I split up when Lily was very small. But very recently, like a few weeks ago, I got married again(!) My wife’s name is Sophie Gee. She’s a novelist and a professor at Princeton in the English department. (The 18th century is her specialty. But don’t try her on Milton either because she will fuck you up.) I love her so much I can’t even write about it here.
Finally, a forward-looking statement: Sophie is pregnant. Very pregnant. Sometime toward the end of June, beginning of July, I will drop off the face of the Earth and then re-emerge a couple of weeks later covered in vomit.
You’ve been warned.