I love being “in the zone.” Totally concentrated on what I’m doing. Especially when I’m writing. People talk to me and I know somewhere on the edge of consciousness they’re asking me a question. Once, twice, and then maybe the third time they ask, I’ll answer with a completely inappropriate word.

Son: Have you fed the dog?

Me: Cupboard.

Son: Mom?

Me: Uh … the food’s in the cupboard.

Son: I know where it is. Has he eaten yet?

Me: Okay, thanks.

That sort of thing. And they think I’m zoned out, but I’m zoned in, man. Like, totally zoned IN. (Sorry, Cheech and Chong were on Stephen Colbert last week and I seem to be channeling Tommy Chong.) It’s all a matter of perspective. I’m guessing nobody would want to be in my zone with me anyhow. At least not farther into my zone than the filtered version that my writing offers. This zone’s deep and scary, man. Deep and scary.