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I had to get rid of a lot of things when I downsized from a house in suburban Maryland to an apartment in Washington, DC. Rooms’ worth. Years’ worth. Over the 20-plus years we had lived there a lot more had gone in than had gone out.
OVER THE PAST few months, I’ve been doing a lot hanging out with the big kids-women over 40 who are writing un-put-down-able fiction. While the novels run the gamut from hilarious to serious, and from debut authors to seasoned pros, ranging in age from 41 to 67, their common trait is beautiful, assured writing.
One year ago, the coronavirus was already in Washington, but most people hadn’t yet experienced significant disruption to their daily lives. How naive we were. Through the quarantines and stay-at-home orders, with restaurants closed, theaters dark and treasures locked up tight in museums, what some of us miss most is the spirit of city – D.C., not Washington – in all its wonderful, unpredictable, maddening glory.