A few years ago, as Frankie Budge, I published an adult novel called Sisters with the Same First Name, which was about a woman who learns that her long-lost father is dying and travels cross-country, picking up all twelve of her half sisters, all born to different mothers, who each share her first name, on their way to his deathbed. And it did not do well, sold poorly, and though the reviews were positive, I could tell that maybe I’d tried too hard to write about my own life, had made it too explicitly autobiographical, and it had gotten messed up in the execution. I’d been embarrassed in the interviews and events when I started to talk about my dad, ancient history. It was fine now. It was a good enough book. I had wondered if my father might read it and contact me, but I had not seen or heard from him since he’d come to my college graduation, when Brian tried to karate kick him before the ceremony even started, and all of us decided, I guess without saying it, that we did not ever need to see each other again. His daughter Frances, who looks nothing like me, is very pretty and has a very active social media presence; she works for a publicity firm in Chicago and the two of us have never exchanged a single word. I think if we met in real life, one of us would explode, would simply cease to exist. I don’t even know if she has any idea who I am. I keep hoping that she will get married, will take the man’s last name, and maybe then, maybe, I wouldn’t hate her quite as much as I do, as petty as that is.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I lived in the world. I was famous in the way you can be as a writer of a book kids loved for a brief period of their lives, and I navigated all kinds of situations where things I’d made were discussed and considered, and sometimes people asked me to join those discussions. I didn’t mind.