In the late 1990s I shared a stage with writers, including Joyce Carol Oates, who, the program dictated, would read immediately before me at a book event that had drawn hundreds of listeners. Being relatively new to reading my work in front of a big crowd, I was nervously re-reading my essay in “A Few Thousand Words About Love,” http://amzn.to/kKnnmc, the anthology we were promoting. Next to me, though, Joyce was writing. I swear, it seemed to me at the time, that Joyce had written a few thousand words while we snaked through the alphabet of authors to the O’s. She read what she called her fiction-memoir flawlessly, and then as I rose shakily to do my bit, she gave me a little smile of support, just the jolt I needed to not only get through the reading, but to do it with a touch of confidence. When I returned to my seat Joyce was still at it, working to finish her scene, or note, or whatever it was because that's what writers do, they answer the call when it comes.
