Maybe she wasn’t a writer at all but rather a dreamer.

Maybe she wasn’t a writer at all but rather a dreamer, a wannabe, a fantasist. Also, she didn’t like her boyfriend.

FRANNY OF AVENUE A BY JENNIFER ANNE MOSES 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 112

Franny would write short stories and give them to her psychoanalyst. His office was all the way uptown, at 88th Street and Madison Avenue, and she had to get up at six-thirty in order to make her seven-thirty appointment with him, the earliest he had.

She hated getting up at six-thirty. She hated getting up period. If it were up to her, she’d stay in bed until 10 or 11. When she was growing up she could stretch her sleep out until noon or even later but that was only if her father wasn’t mowing the lawn or her brother wasn’t banging on his drums. Except that wasn’t right, either. He usually didn’t bang on his drums until late in the day or at night, almost always when she was doing homework, when she dreamed about going to college and after that being a famous writer and showing her family that she wa…