The day of the night. We’ll be leaving the North Fork about 2. Depending on traffic we’ll get to NYC about 4:30. We’ll park. Then look for somewhere to have a very late lunch. Nothing fancy. Oh, God. What if I drop something on what I’m wearing? Maybe I shouldn’t eat. But I have to. I’ll be extra careful.
I don’t know what the weather will be like. The sun is trying to come out here. I don’t want it to rain in NYC for obvious reasons. Imagine them.
One person has already called to say she double booked herself and probably can’t make it although she’ll try. The reading is uptown, her theater is downtown. Now I can be sure of 7 people. I’m not counting the people from Ballantine or my agent’s office. My agent can’t come because of a recent knee operation. I know she would otherwise. She’s like that.
How do we know what butterflies in our stomachs would feel? That’s not what I’d call it. And it’s not the weasel in there either. The weasel comes when I’m depressed. Now I’m anxious. It feels more like little people dancing. But how do I know what that would feel like either? I don’t. But I know this: it’s a horrible thing to be sitting here with little people dancing with butterflies in my stomach.
Okay. That’s it. I thank you for listening to my worries all week and before. Then next time I post it will all be over. Except for the reading I have to do next month in Sag Harbor. I promise not to start expressing my fears until a week before. Maybe I can get it down to three or four days. There is always hope.