"When we visit his parents, my daughter tries to learn to swin at the indoor pool. I watch her serious, scrunched-up face, eyes closed, counting one stroke, two strokes. A few days later, she is up to fifty. Then my husband arrives from Brooklyn and she insists we rush him straight from the airport to the pool. But when we get there, she won't do it. I am tight-lipped, resentful of all the fuss she has required to be made, the great anticlimax of it. My husband falls asleep in a deck chair as we are deliberating. He has been up all night, spraying poison. His mother, bright-eyed, gentles her through the water. 'Once a swimmer, always a swimmer,' she says.
(Yes, it's been a while, people. Been busy writing novels and shit. And I've promised myself in 2014 to try to use social media to share my enthusiams, and not to carp and complain. This is the first novel in quite a while that I've felt compelled to bring to your attention. Consider yourselves on notice.)