Carol Kirkpatrick, possibly the brightest writer I ever met in a writing group (proof positive being her ability to scribble out a pithy, brilliantly crafted story on the spot) had the additional charm of treating me to an oral history of Brooklyn whenever we walked its streets together. My hope is to charm you with this sample of her writing:
The Night I Dropped Dead
Bruce (eight) and I (eleven) were doing the dishes, squabbling as usual.
I washed; he dried; we bickered. The water turned red. I had cut myself.
When pressure wouldn’t staunch the flow, I went upstairs for a Band-Aid. Next I knew I was on the floor with a nasty headache.
“She just walked upstairs and dropped dead!” I heard Bruce crying into the phone.
I had fainted of course, but I savored the next couple of minutes before deflating the drama.
