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Nearly every night, through our mudroom window, I could see that she was writing. In a room facing the road, with only a single light on, she worked religiously. There was something comforting about knowing she was there, that she was making yet another contribution to the world of literature while I was doing the laundry or bringing the recycling out to the garage.
The routine was not all that remarkable for her, but from the outside looking in, it felt momentous. There, across the driveway, was Joyce Carol Oates, and she was writing.
For more than 20 years I have thought about her. Now that she is still living and writing in Princeton and I am across the country in Seattle, she is not nearly as present in my imagination as she once was.
But still she commands my attention, and something as benign as a New Yorker profile brings her rapidly back into my consciousness. As a couple in our thirties with one child at the time, we found the outskirts of Princeton to be a good change from the intensity of Manhattan.