According to my résumé, I am a recent transplant into the Mississippi Delta, a wide-eyed idealist who had dreams of closing the American achievement gap. Yet, the woman speeding home from school is anything but an idealist, frustrated and exhausted by the reality of a day in one of America’s overlooked schools.

It’s on such days that I desperately want to bury my head under my comforter. Unfortunately, my Chihuahua waits for me at the door, impatient for his evening walk and completely unsympathetic to my depleted state. Grudgingly, I wrestle the jumping ball of pent-up energy into his leash and we begin to wander down Main Street.

Once upon a time, there was a small girl with a big stack of books. She was barely five years old, but had torn through a zillion Golden Books and Disney fairy tales and was stuck at the cottage with nothing to read. Her folks took her to a used bookstore in Parry Sound, where she picked out about 30 yellow-spined Nancy Drew mystery stories. Within days, she was prowling the swamps behind the cottage for clues, making believe that nearby ghost town ruins were castles. With a notebook in one hand, and a flashlight in the other, the girl made relentless notes on the few characters that populated the lake and woods where she was staying. That little girl grew up to be a writer.

I know I’m not the only one anticipating this week’s Toronto release of the film Nancy Drew. Director Andrew Fleming takes Nancy (Emma Roberts) to Hollywood. I sure hope the film can capture the soul of the book heroine and not ruin a legacy.

Just getting settled after the express train hurtled us out to fucking Queens, along with a roommate from thirty-five hundred miles ago and one of his high school friends from upstate—a lush green corner of this land—full of damn hillbillies in this bluest-of-blue states, drunk and homophobic, jocks, these two and me, stumbling with pre-game booze eyes looking for our ticket hut, then finding our seats after grabbing two pricey piss-water lagers each, greeting the ex-roommate’s dad and absorbing insults thrown to those of us too proud to leave the Yankee hat at home on the trip to Shea Stadium.

“Yur here ta see da foakin’ Mets! Foak the Yankees!” Must be some Queens greeting.

Nice seats. Great seats. Wow, that half-inning’s over already? Time for the Mets to bat. What did you say? Wow, nobody got on base. Gotta go smoke a cigarette.

Here are some notes from an old journal, circa 1994, when I was on disability for chronic fatigue syndrome.

It's hard to stay cheery when you're chronically ill. On my bad days, I'm lucky to be in a good mood - some days I'm just too damn tired to get upset or worried.

But then sometimes when I'm kinda OK but not quite right - these are the worst.

I lay around thinking "Why me?"

Why can't I go out and enjoy the sunshine like everyone else? Why can't I ride my bike? Rollerblade? Dance?

I never had much respect for my body until I lost my health. I took walking and running for granted. I never wanted to exercise, I hated jocks, brains were it.

Now I'd do almost anything to be fit - be a jock - at least whatever I could do with my current energy level.

Note: I've recently been cleaning up my old files and I found this story I wrote back in my early 20s. At that point in my life I was overcoming a depression I had developed in college. I'm a much happier person now.

The challenge is the living.

I cry in the teary-eyed nightmare time of life, sounds of sick sobs screaming through my arteries. Outside it is quiet for a moment, despite the inner cacaphony. No crickets, no owls, no cars driving by, for just a minute. I hear my heartbeat, my blood flowing softly in swirls, and a clock hand moving with a slight metallic hum. Oh yes, and my sorrow, I hear my sorrow.

(I really suck, don't I?)