She spent it on Ann Patchett and Judith Moore

Fatigued with not writing my novel, I am lately enjoying the financial benefits of not writing short stories, instead. Yes, I say, but a short story is not a novel, now is it? Well, I would have to counter, not writing this novel has not netted me any tiny share-of-the-profits checks, now has it? Huh? Well? Whereas not writing short stories is still bringing in the bucks. Hah! Gotcha there.

It is a wee sacred bit of gold that came in the mail last week, my share of the author goodies from the reprint of "Bumpship" and my first financial feedback from the reading public, since it is a reflection of sales. It lands like a boulder in the unraked sand of my nonwriting. To further confuse myself, I will fritter away the gold on books unrelated to nursing education. We fritter, here in the South, and lest you confuse this with waste, allow me to educate (and in true Southern fashion politely insult) you. Whole life insurance is waste. A raw ceramic head of Medusa, one shrimp burrito, and a bumper sticker that says, "Focus on your own damn family" (which you will never put on your car but could not resist) is frittering, especially if you bought it with funds earmarked for a whole life insurance payment. Frittering requires a moment of rebellion, freedom, sailing off into the future with a huge batique panel that must be carried all the way home because no cab will stop for you and the guards stand firm at the Metro. Frittered money is not wasted; it is disposed of, pleasantly, in small but steady scatterings. We Southerners fritter dollars "away" as if they were slightly dangerous, likely to gather and attack. Consider the word "amass" and tell me that I am wrong about this.

If you are an artful spender, you will rarely be faced with a dangerous mass of bucks, but it is possible to fritter away even large amounts of money. It takes style and dedication. If you inherit a million dollars, invest it in energy stocks and lose it all, you have wasted it, and tortured yourself with failure. If you inherit a million dollars, do whatever you feel like doing, go wherever you feel like going, and buy whatever you feel like buying for two or three years until you are so broke that you have to get a job waiting tables at Denny's just to pay rent--and you are not a gambler or high--you have probably frittered it away. Do you have fond memories of all the things you did with it, and do not hate yourself for it being gone now? Congratulations. You have style.

Now you will understand. To fritter away her small nugget on Truth and Beauty and Fat Girl in the face of tuition bills and unresolved plumbing issues, Danae must step forward into bliss, rake in hand, to remind herself that the ground level of being is not littered with mutual funds. Both books are autobiographical, which I did not notice until after I had chosen them. I think I get it, though. Nonfiction can be a very hard first draft. I want a little mental company while I am not writing the novel, a few gods to emulate, a little hope that all this grinding nonwriting autobiography leads to a fritterable future. I am a master fritterer. I can do this.

Okay then.