If you know a writer, you know someone who has a major grudge with the publishing industry.

Our complaints are exhaustive; we are an articulate and grievous crew. We are in fact upset about too many things to bother documenting the sundry details. When we meet, we often trade bitter anecdotes that are interesting only to those who suffer the same indignities.

People who have never published books do not understand our pain.

From what I can gather, the issue that causes the most distress is the inevitably disastrous book cover. I can say with some confidence that I do not know anyone who has been satisfied with the way their books look.

Why? Again, the reasons are too numerous to count. Sometimes the grievance is legitimate – lots of ugly book jackets are published every year. Others are more subtle. Fundamentally it often boils down to the simple fact that someone else controls the manner by which your creative work is represented.

Even if you have some measure of sway in the decisions the process is not easy. I hated the cover of my first anthology because I thought the imagery had poor symbolic value. That experience persuaded me that I needed creative control over other books. But the second anthology caused great distress because the idea and artwork executed by a fantastic designer (and close friend) was changed by the publisher.

I was able to suggest and use the work of a friend (who also shows up as a character in the first chapter) for the memoir, and liked the results very much. But each time the book is published in another country the whole matter of the cover comes up again – and the new publisher has to make decisions about what will help sales, and they are obviously more conversant with their own culture than I could ever be.

The Swedish edition of the book had the same cover, but a translated title. The U.K. edition will have the original title but a different cover.

Wednesday evening I had a peek at the draft of the new jacket, and I have no idea how I feel about it. I furrowed my brow and consulted with my agent, and various writer and artist friends. Then I went on an odyssey through the bookshops of Muswell Hill and Crouch End, looking at covers and taking notes.

Iain very patiently joined me as I scanned shelves to find books published by the same company to compare with the cover they propose to put on mine.

It is nice to have friends who indulge my paranoia.

The madness of a summer in this place could not be exaggerated. Heat and sun bring people out of their homes in droves; the parks fill up with sport and play. At night the streets of Cambridge are swarmed with hoards of drinkers. And because this is a university town the parties, particularly after exams end, are a nonstop cacophony, featuring fireworks and finery.

There are swarms of drunk people in tuxedos and ballgowns literally everywhere you look, all day and night.

For the last week I’ve been trying to catch up on work but the temptations are endless. I’ve lost whole days to entertaining frippery and found myself scribbling overdue essays on scraps of paper while riding the train back and forth to London.

The NY trip was arranged to allow plenty of time for work and visiting friends, but the primary purpose of the journey was to attend a wedding.

I met the prospective groom in 1988, when we both attended a summer leadership institute as idealistic seventeen-year-olds. One day early in the program we were all sent to do volunteer work in the Emergency Housing section of the CD, which at the time was a brutally scary place for our middle class peers to hang out. It only took about ten minutes before we lost a naive girl from a ranch on the eastern side of the state.

When the others scattered to search for her, Karl and I sat down on a boulder and stared at our feet. We hadn’t talked before then. After a long pause he asked What do you think happened to her?

I replied I reckon she’s dead.

He responded My best friend just committed suicide.

Of course, I laughed.

One day during media training we were taught how to shake hands and state our names in a persuasive way, and he insisted on using and emphasizing his middle initial. This led to everyone (or maybe just me) mocking him by referring to him as Karl T Steel throughout the summer and, as far as I could cultivate it, for years to come.

A few days after the institute ended I went on a catastrophic road trip that nearly killed three of my best friends. KTS was supposed to be in the car that day, but at the last minute I didn’t pick him up. If he had been the fifth passenger he would surely have died. The velocity of his body slamming through the vehicle might have killed the rest of us.

He doesn’t remember it, but he came to the hospital and sat with me in intensive care, listening to me talk fast against the pain of a broken face. My jaw was dislocated and I’m sure that I made no sense at all, rattling through one macabre anecdote after another. He sat next to the bed all day, patiently listening, not showing any horror over the spectacle of my smashed body. Karl T Steel won my deep and abiding loyalty that day.

With my education, friendships, and body wrecked beyond repair, I became a zealot in service to the youth empowerment movement. Over the course of the next year I traveled through the state checking on the progress of various projects, recruited for the institute, speaking to civic groups, fundraising working the media, lobbying, working ceaselessly to build something called the Youth Initiative.

KTS quite likely had more entertaining things to do but he allowed himself to be washed along in these plans. At my bidding he gave speeches to the Rotary Club (in which he falsely claimed that he had been a homeless drug addict until the institute saved him), attended countless meetings, helped run events, went to rallies, and even joined the Sea Scouts as part of my scheme to take over a warehouse on the waterfront.

Later we went to the same alternative liberal arts college, but we stopped talking because KTS got hip and I got pregnant.

I married someone KTS still claims is the scariest person he has ever met. Karl immersed himself in the Olympia scene and was a DJ at Thekla. I wandered around wearing a shirt that said One Shot, One Kill. We loathed each other on principle, ostensibly for lifestyle choices but more realistically because we were trying to grow up and needed to shed the past.

When friendships die my tendency is to quietly fade away. I do not participate in fights and confrontations. If I insult someone it is generally an accident. But whenever KTS and I met we verbally eviscerated each other: our altercations were legendary. Strangers in cafes would stare in shock.

These conversations were not even benign at the first point of contact. I would start with something like Why are you wasting your life?

He would reply with Why are you so straight?

I would counter Define your terms. Or are you linguistically lazy on top of everything else?

To be fair, although we meant everything we said, we were also laughing. KTS has a scathing wit and an absolute genius for high sarcasm. I never felt insulted by his observations; he was correct in his estimation that all my life choices were contrary and provocative. I was right to perceive that he was not doing the work that he ought to.

When we both moved to different cities and I no longer had an equal and scathing sparring partner… I found that I missed him.

When I started to write Lessons in Taxidermy I remembered the kindness of that boy who sat with me in the hospital and tracked him down. We started corresponding and the first thing he wrote was an apology for being a jerk.

I demurred and pointed out that I was just as much of an idiot (and that he did my statistics homework at the height of our supposed feud). Eventually we started visiting each other, and our friendship now is something I truly value, perhaps even more because we went through so much to get to this point.

I travelled to New Jersey to watch Karl (currently a medievalist finishing a PhD at Columbia) marry his sweetheart, a woman named Alison (a novelist). I caught a ride to the wedding with Matt, who is married to my former editor at Seal Press. I went to college with Matt, and the fourth passenger, but didn’t know them at the time – along with a whole bunch of other people I would meet later that day, thus continuing the all-Olympia-all-the-time theme of my trip.

Though to be fair, there were also a couple of people who live in my former Seattle and Portland neighborhoods, and others who know my NW friends who live in NYC. The Pacific Northwest thing functions as a sort of alternative secret society.

The groom wore the suit his father-in-law was married in forty years ago; the bride supervised an astonishing amount of the work that went into the day, including making all of the flowers on the cake by hand. Alison’s parents generously offered their home for the ceremony and then excused themselves from the ensuing debauchery. What else can be said about a wedding? The vows and toasts were both hilarious and extraordinary.

The guests, after a few rounds of drinks, split into three groups. There were family and friends of the family, all of them lovely and kind. There were the friends of the bride (and latterly the groom of course), who all appeared to have impeccable manners and interesting jobs.

Then there were the friends from the groom’s past, starting with me as the oldest vintage and unspooling outward through college (JJ, Joey, Matt) and his life in NY (Ana Erotica, Josh, Margaret). This contingent was later described by Matt as the Bad Kids.

Normally I think that I would gravitate toward the middle group; Gabriel mostly hung out with them and had a great time. But for some unknown reason I found myself claimed by the third group, troublemakers all, though a few might not see themselves that way.

Everyone in the third group had funny Bad Karl stories, but I was unique in that I could produce copies of his juvenile poetry. Also his high school graduation photograph, in which he is wearing jeans decorated with anarchy symbols and Smiths lyrics. It might be harder to locate but there is also video footage of a certain lip-synching contest many people would like to forget. Not that I would put these on display – I may be occasionally naughty but I’m not wicked.

Perhaps because I do not karaoke, I ended up hanging out with the crew who were determined to finish all three kegs, at whatever cost; the people who went on an illicit skinnydipping raid of a neighbors pool; and the couples who may or may not have hooked up somewhere on the premises.

It was my naive question that kicked off the kegstand tournament (though I refused to participate, especially when the boys offered to pay me and promised to hold my dress together).

I ran around most of the evening with the squad competing to win the Most Drunk contest, and it was our persuasive charms that convinced someone to karaoke naked to This Old Man. Somewhere in the middle of the night everyone was screaming the lyrics to Too Drunk to Fuck, which was probably an accurate assessment of their state.

At the end one of the Bad Kids tried to persuade me to get in a car with an open Tupperware mixing bowl full of alcohol. When I said no they tried to woo me with promises of cocaine back at the hotel, but Ana Erotica defended my honor. Stop! Bee doesn’t… do that. 

In other words, it was a brilliant weekend, and the best wedding I’ve ever attended.

Gabriel & me having fun:

I always have to take a date to weddings for fear of, I don’t know, contamination – but on this occasion Gabriel’s presence was my gift to the couple. He filled a book with drawings of the event:

Alison and Karl changed their clothes seconds after they exchanged vows – a good thing since we churned the backyard into a muddy mess posthaste:

There was a pinata for the youngsters; Ana qualified!

Everything went a bit fuzzy as the evening progressed; Naked Karaoke was one result:

But most people kept their clothes on. And Karl was happier than I’ve ever seen him (and it wasn’t because he was drinking straight from the pitcher):

When I arrived in New York I was sick, and then the place I had planned to stay fell through, but I was rescued by friends old and new. I was astonished once again that people can be so generous – particularly those who let me crash in their precious private space.

Jess and Brian have my sincere and lasting appreciation. The folks who called in favors to get me sorted medically know that they can call on me for help whenever they like. I am of course humbled to discover that so many people will offer advice and solace: thank you.

Once I had rested enough to enjoy the city I had a predictably fabulous time, much of it based around …. shopping! Life in the UK offers many pleasures, but not necessarily all the consumer goods I feel compelled to acquire.

Brisk effort quickly procured moisturizer, sunblock, new shoes, a dress with buttons on the sleeve, and of course, new spectacles. What would a trip to NYC be without a visit to Fabulous Fanny’s? The proprietor has style to spare but, unusually, is totally honest about which frames look good on my face. And, this time, the shop had expanded – he showed me some special things in a back cupboard!

I visited with too many people to list, but aside from those noted above had an opportunity to see Ayun a couple of times. One humid Saturday I stood laughing in her kitchen all afternoon, watching her make food from a crumpled up twenty-five year old recipe that had been through the wash.

She pieced the paper together like a puzzle but pieces kept blowing away, and she wasn’t really sure of how much flour or sugar to put in the cupcakes, but the end result was of course delightful. Then she took me to a picnic in Central Park, where I finally got to meet Spencer, and hang out with charming denizens of the stage and screen. My favorite guest (held aloft by Ayun):

Other features of the trip included watching a lightning storm from the Q train as it crossed the river; eating vegetarian dim sum with Gabriel in Chinatown; and winning a small green accordion at a spelling bee (even though it was a consolation prize).

I started this journal four years ago to document the process of dismantling my settled, lovely, and rather boring life in Portland. Since then I’ve lived in and abandoned Seattle, emigrated to England, and travelled so extensively I can’t even remember which country I’m in half the time. Not to mention all the strange and secret developments along the way.

There has been hilarity and heartbreak in equal measure, and it would have been far easier to stay home, but I’m glad that I made the effort.

Greetings from a borrowed Brooklyn garden on a gorgeous hot day! I’ve been so busy there hasn’t been a spare second to report on my escapades.

In case you were wondering, this is what top secret projects look like:

May 22 has had huge significance these last five years; I really do not know why so many interesting and odd things happen on that particular day, but it is true.

Yesterday I went to London to meet with (and this would be the announcement of my most recent thrilling secret) the UK publishing firm that just optioned Lessons in Taxidermy: Orion Books.

The editors, marketing staff, and publicists were excessively professional and lovely and we feasted on cake as we worked out the plan to promote the book.

Then my agent (another new development) took me to tea at the Savoy.

I find this all quite extraordinary.

Today as I cycled toward yet another Addenbrooke’s appointment my progress was thwarted by throngs of Elizabethans cluttering Trinity street, with police escort. I sighed and paused to let the trucks full of movie equipment pass, then dodged through crowds of women in long velvet gowns and men in metal helmets.

When I stopped for tea in the market square the friendly chap on the stall inquired what I planned to do with such a glorious day; when I informed him that I was going to a surgery clinic at the teaching hospital his eyes widened and he asked What will they do to you?

I shrugged the reply Nothing. Though I still have to go.

I was right; the appointment was a routine x-ray examination, with an obligatory short conversation with a person who may or may not have been a surgeon (doctors and surgeons have different professional titles and I can’t keep the facts straight).

I might claim that it was surreal that, after reviewing my chart, she asked So you have had lesions in your jaw?! in a shocked and perplexed voice, even though my records clearly state that I’ve had at least half a dozen surgeries for that particular anomaly. She had never met anyone with the genetic disorder, never encountered anyone like me, ever.

I’m used to conversing with baffled medical personnel, and I know how to read my own x-rays.

I patiently pointed out the areas where the tumors grew (easy, that – look for missing teeth and bingo!). Old scarred bits are the grayish areas. New tumors are clear circles.

Here in the UK they always, without exception, treat me with tender concern and ask if I have any questions. I try not to feel exasperated when I give a cursory No.

Why would I have questions for someone who has never met a live human with the disorder? I’ve been living with it my entire life. I’m the best expert available.

But again, that is all routine. The new and interesting bit was the fact that the walls of the examination rooms featured signs that read It’s okay to ask! with a picture of hands being washed.

The small print informs patients that they should not feel nervous about asking staff and visitors to scrub. The lack of hand hygiene has been my number one complaint in the hospitals in this country.

Last year when the nurse started taking stitches out of my face without properly scrubbing, I was momentarily speechless, and then my brain kicked into rage.

When the fellow chirped an inquiry about the biopsy I snarled It was cancer,making him jump.

He knew that the results had not been added to my chart and nervously asked why I thought the news was bad.

I retorted Because I have cancer.

It would have been far more effective to ask him to wash his hands, but I didn’t process the information that quickly.

But anyway, my x-ray was clean, the appointment over in less than twenty minutes including the removal and re-installation of earrings never taken out otherwise over the course of twenty-five years, and then I rode the bus back into town, sitting in the front row of the top of a double decker, peering down at bits of the city I never see from the seat of my bicycle.

I checked my mail and was amused to discover that my referral to gyn-oncology finally went through, precisely eighteen months after my GP put in the request. Since every single one of my other specialist appointments were issued within days of the original request, this delay has struck me as particularly fascinating.

In this country they do not do yearly pap smears; there is controversy over the efficacy of mammogram; certain breast cancer drugs accepted as proven elsewhere in Europe and the US are denied as experimental (read: expensive), and a person like me can’t get an appointment for love nor money.

My GP tried, several times. I talked to the clinic directly. Nothing happened until the geneticist intervened. Though to be fair, my GP did recently refer me to the private system covered by my insurance; I just didn’t have time to make the trek out to Trumpington.

I find it ever so interesting that it is easy to get treatment for the symptoms that are not dependent on my gender, and nearly impossible to see a gynecologist. The reverse is true where I come from.

Later I sat on the wall at St. John’s for a bit, watching Cate Blanchett swan around pretending to be Queen Elizabeth. Some giggling undergrads came through the gates all aflutter to have spotted Clive Owen.

I’ve never been very good with nouns when speaking out loud. The names of objects, in particular, often escape me – as do the names of people I know.

I click my fingers and substitute whatsit for cup and it for the name of a friend’s beloved child.

Living in another country exacerbates this problem, even though the language here is the same one I ostensibly grew up speaking.

Some of the differences are easy to remember: pants are not trousers, for instance.

But unfortunately the multitudes of other differences are more difficult to track. The fact that a number of my friends grew up speaking various other languages, or different dialects of English, adds to the confusion as we sit over a late dinner lavishly describing something that could be covered with one precise word, if only we knew what it was.

My need for privacy overwhelms any urge toward disclosure, in matters both large and small. I do and feel and think all sorts of things that I would never write about, nor even discuss in person. In fact, I can state with some degree of accuracy that nobody reading these words actually knows that much about me, regardless of how long they have been in my acquaintance – or how intimately involved in my escapades.

Most people who hang out with me find this infuriating. Unless they have told me a secret, in which case they are cautiously optimistic that I will not expose them.

I do tell the truth – and occasionally I shock people with information that I would categorize as obvious or trivial – but for the most part I am simply not interested in providing a detailed summary of my existence. And yes, I am aware that this stance appears contradictory given the fact that I have written a memoir (not to mention the existence of this journal).

If I could conceal more I would; for instance, in most of my published writing I have attempted to obfuscate details like the name of the town where I went to college. Mostly because that particular place has a specific meaning for many people, and using the word would distract from the point I was trying to make in a couple of essays. There are numerous examples like this.

Then there is also my (sometimes reckless) refusal to be affiliated with any organized group or institution, and a persistent belief that my actions do not define my identity.

Often this tendency is useful in pragmatic ways; it certainly contributes to my ability to skip through wildly disparate social situations. Other times my desire to keep secrets seems to be a pathological anomaly that should be discarded posthaste.

Doing so would at least improve my conversational range. I’ve been away to London for a few days to celebrate something I’m not prepared to talk about, and I’m off to New York soon to meet Gabriel and work on a top secret project. What is left to write about except a report on the (currently vile) weather?

The fact that I’ve developed an allergy to my favorite sunblock isn’t a scintillating topic.