"It’s 8:45 a.m. and I have locked myself in the third stall of the sixth-floor men’s room—the one nearest the wall. I am sitting exactly where you would expect me to be sitting, scribbling away in a buff-colored steno pad stolen specifically for the occasion. I’ve been spending more and more time in here lately because I can’t keep spending it out there. Out there it’s telephones and computers and all sorts of people with problems, people who want to interrupt what you are doing (or not doing), people who want to talk to you, people who want to tell you things you’re not interested in hearing. People like Robert Bray, for example, who knows everything there is to know about the downtown condo market, and Lucy McAllister, who seems to think your life would be improved if you knew more guys named Cooter.
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   Had an interesting session with Dr. Costa yesterday. He wanted to focus on the negative feelings I seem to have toward Mrs. Dorton, the evil manageress of my apartment building. I told him my negative feelings for her were mostly in response to her negative feelings toward me, but, as always, he seems reluctant to accept what I am telling him as true. He has an interesting theory. He thinks I have focused my attention on her as a way of not focusing it on myself, that my unhappiness with my unhappiness is driving me to see her as some sort of persecutor when, in fact, it’s just me trying to avoid admitting things to myself—namely, that I have an inclination to romanticize what (for want of a less loaded word) we have tentatively agreed to call my “depression” and that this inclination is predicated on a quaint eighteenth-century belief in the sanctity of a certain sort of suffering. A wiry, wedge-headed guy in his middle 40s, Dr. C looks like he could be, is, or has been at one time, a runner. He is the third guy I’ve seen in the last three years. Calm, quiet, quick to write prescriptions—I can’t help feeling he’s dangerous." Excerpt from CHAPTER 1

   "I overheard Aaron Anderson complaining to Terry Fitzsimmons about the lack of female companionship in his life. He said he thought that it might, in part, have something to do with the time of year, but he had been, as he put it, on his own for a few months now—ever since the divorce. He told Terry that he had started reading the personal ads, but he was having trouble getting into it because he found them so dispiriting. I took a look in the back of Westside Watch, the local alternative weekly. I see what he means. I found a woman who was trustworthy, enjoyed people, and loved the earth. Another who wanted someone she could talk about her golf game with. Still another wanted someone who put Jesus first. An appalling number said they liked camping—the clear implication being that you should too. Several women were looking for a soulmate. Does this word really mean anything to the people using it or is it just code—a way of saying they are looking for something that is not entirely about sex. 
   Of course as you read these things you can’t help but start to wonder what your own ad might look like. 
   “Underachieving, low-paid, nonprofessional cog in relatively uncaring machine who is closer to being short than tall. A nonsmoking occasional drinker with a sense of humor who likes good conversation, but has a short attention span. Not especially stable, but can cook better than most. Scored abysmally on standard 5 Factor Personality Test—i.e., a worried, hypercritical loner with an attenuated taste for the novel. Likes television, travel, movies, and books, but is by most accounts a picky elitist. Likes the beach, but has mixed feelings about the mountains. Cats no. Dogs yes. Hates dancing and would consider camping only in the case of a national emergency. Doesn’t play the guitar, but can swim. No arrests (as an adult). No tattoos. Has never been to Aspen. Thinks sushi is for seals. Envies the easygoing, but is not easygoing himself. “
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   What would Kate’s ad look like? 
   “Smart, attractive, funny, forgiving, courteous, sympathetic, ambidextrous SWF with weakness for lost causes. Likes marmalade, literature majors, and hiking—but injured her knee playing tennis last year, so trails with a significant elevation gain are out of the question. Can spell anything. Once owned a parakeet named Mikey.” Excerpt from CHAPTER 2

   "Peter was talking about his dog book in general. He said he didn’t know how hard to work on it. Whatever it was going to end up being, it wasn’t going to be what he wanted, and he would dislike it. The more he worked on it the less he would dislike it—but that was only up to a point. The trick was recognizing that point because when he got to it, he would be done." Excerpt from CHAPTER 3