For the Narrative Magazine reading, 300 people came to the Bowery to listen. Last year's Narrative Prize Winner, Min Jin Lee, read a powerful piece from her first novel. James Salter's voice is beautiful, and he takes his sweet time getting through the work. He read a story - Palm Court - from his new SSC - Last Night. I was honored to be in his company and I brought "A Sport And A Pastime" for him to sign. I'd pay money to hear him again. Why he hasn't been recorded reading his memoir or his fiction I don't know. I read second, and was nervous, but once I got up there, I didn't want to stop. In the audience were cherished friends - Sue Henderson, Jon Sylbert, Lindsay Brandon Hunter, Margaret Evangeline, Todd Zuniga, P.J. Mark, Debbie Ann Ice, and dear, proud Malcolm - who I sat on the front row so I could tap into their strength. People laughed at the first piece I read, and I didn't know it was that funny. Amazing what you learn about the voice in your work when you read out loud to people who aren't your husband.

Narrative Magazine took us out to dinner after, and I sat next to Salter. He told me a fine story about interviewing Nabokov in Paris, how he had to go through Vera to do this and had to furnish her a written copy of the questions in advance. He's extremely modest, elegant, and almost 80 years old. Tom Jenks and Carol Edgarian - the editors, along with Lacy Crawford, of Narrative Magazine (and all fine writers themselves) - treat writers with such love and respect. They're a gift from the Muse.

The second night at Symphony Space I got to sit in the audience with Malcolm while Hope Davis read my story in McSweeney's. I cried at the end and so did she. David Strathairn's reading of Brian Evenson's story, Mudder Tongue, was handsome, and so the hell is he. David Rakoff read a funny piece by Miranda Mellis. There were 500 or so in the audience. Eli Horowitz from McSweeney's did a charmingly eloquent job of introducing the pieces. He's a cutie, and, like, twenty. Soon. What made me feel good was how people in NYC come out to hear fiction, and short stories, and please, dear God, make them buy lots of fiction, too.

The last day, I walked from Murray Hill to Chelsea to see the Bill Viola show at the James Cohan Gallery, which, literally, gave me pause. His work requires time and patience, with the most exquisite payoff. Sensuous, sensitive genius.