For the last few months I've been writing a book, so it was easy to have a silent morning, since most of the time Sasha provides my only interaction with another mammal. But by midafternoon, I was missing even the minor human contact I usually had. I called my husband at work. After he said "Hello" and I didn't say anything, he said, "Oh, it's you. How's it going?" Pause. "That well, huh?" Pause. "I love you and you're very weird."

[...]

Because I was in the normal world and not on a retreat where we all greeted each other with virtuous gazes, I was getting enlightened as to what agony it would be to involuntarily be unable to communicate. My daughter raised a good point. No one paid money to put on blindfolds or earplugs for a few days. Yet forgoing speech was supposed to be purifying. I understood why "retreat" was as important as "silent." Fleeing from all acquaintances left me feeling less like a spiritual pilgrim and more like a fugitive.

Right when I was just about to start the Q&A and take the first question, Store Manager Tom began walking swiftly to the stage. "Again we have just a few minutes for questions," I announced. Tom interrupted, announcing, "Very few minutes! In fact, you're done. Take it down." I was still in a position of power as I was on a raised stage and in front of the podium. I smiled at Tom and calmly addressed the crowd:

"Ladies and Gentlemen it seems we are in fact all out of time. Thank you for coming out today to hear Mr. Chekov. Please come back for future Meet the Writer programs, which happen at this store several times a week. We would like to thank Barnes and Noble Union Square for having us today. Thank you."