The problem with the new novel, which is a sequel to another novel I wrote called "Rosie," is that it does not seem to have a plot yet, even though this is the third revision, and all the characters talk like Janeane Garofalo, which is why I am waking up every morning with the certain belief that the sun is burning out and we are all being ground down by slime.

I get that old familiar feeling that the well has finally gone dry and I am finally going to get the phone call that I've been waiting for all my life, the one that says that the jig is up and I'm going to have to go work for the phone company.

My mind is broken. That is how I would define my problem. A few days ago I took my boy to school wearing bedroom slippers -- I was wearing the slippers, not Sam -- and the teacher took me aside and said that I was the special parent this year; every year they have one and I'm it right now. So I said to Sam, "I know someone is picking you up after school for a playdate but I can't remember who," which caused both Sam and the teacher to roll their eyes simultaneously.

And Sam said, "Oh God, Mom, it's Jacob -- write that down; it's important to me," and normally I don't like being patronized by someone weighing less than 50 pounds but I decided to make an exception in this case.

I knew what I needed was a shot in the arm. All writers need that, because all writers become exhausted and pathetic and doglike and bitter, at least in my experience. So I sent the novel to my agent, even though I hadn't finished the revisions. And then I waited for the biopsy results.

A few mornings later, the light on my message machine was blinking when I woke up, and it was my agent. Having an agent, even one who lives three time zones later in the heart of the publishing world, call that early is like having Jesus call, or anyway Jesus' manager.

And the message says, "Ooooh, Annie, I just....all I can say is WOW. This is the most amazing book I think I've ever read. I'm so blown away. We've got to line up the film rights immediately; we have to nail all that down..." and by this time my mind is reeling and already I'm casting the movie, wondering who should play me, Sharon Stone or Janeane Garofalo, and then he says, "...and I'm on page 10."

I scramble to the manuscript and open it to page 11 and realize that yes, that's where it all begins to fall apart, and I know by this time my agent is working with the legal department at Random House, figuring out how they can get their advance back without him losing his commission. Immediately I lose all faith in the book and in myself, and I begin to look a little bit like John DuPont around the eyes, and I start lighting candles to St. Dymphna, who is the patron saint of nervous cases. But it doesn't take.

The miracle of it all is that I went back to work anyway. I went downstairs and began once again chipping away at all the marble that wasn't part of the statue, just fixing and burnishing and trying to make it better, all the while trying to remember that I wrote it down in the first place because it was important to me.

I try to remember only a few things -- to live out loud, as someone said, and to write even when I don't want to and, most important of all, to put my shoes on when I go to school.