There is a place to the east where the highway falls into the ocean. It is where dry pavement gives way to briny waters, more like a wide sand bar than a true peninsula.
(An exclusive excerpt from her second novel of the same title)
You are unemployed, at best very unsuccessful. Yet you go to parties. Parties where you meet people who ask, “So what do you do?”
You live with your parents. You share a one-bedroom with three roommates. You consider ramen a food group. You update your Facebook profile daily.
Your job has no title. You work within a department. You’re an unpaid intern. You’re assistant to the intern.
You stop people on the street and ask them if they like comedy, then push ticket packages to the “best comedy club in New York!” You stop them and say, “Excuse me, may I ask you a question about your hair?” You hand out free soap samples; nobody wants your soap samples.
HE HAS ONE of the last great farms in the Hamptons, 33 acres in Wainscott north of old Main Street, and he is, in fact, East Hampton's last bona fide potato farmer.
The right whale is an apt metaphor for a good magazine in the digital era: big, slow, mesmerizingly beautiful, and . . . verging on the edge of extinction. The sense of setting off into some unknown is also appropriate.