Limbo is not a new aconym for a Manhattan neighbourhood, although New York City, where I’m writing from, is full of them – Loisa for the Lower East Side, NoLiTa for North of Little Italy, Dumbo for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. No, Limbo simply describes the in-between state I currently occupy, in which my book is bound and printed and champing at the bit, yet not out in the world of bookstores. I came here to wait out part of this hiatus, and have kept myself busy with friends and other work in the meantime (a feature article for a magazine, content for my new website). My publisher warned me I would find this period difficult, and she was right. I’m impatient for the book to kick and scream its way onto shelves, whatever the duration its shelf-life turns out to be.

Back in New York for a while to wait out the limbo between having finished copies of my book and their appearing in book stores. And to see friends, go to the theatre, file my US tax return, buy a pair of long winter boots. I seem to have done little else but eat since I arrived, so I decided to take a long walk and have recently returned. I wandered from Grand Street on the Lower East Side, where I’m currently staying, east until I hit the East River, then followed the water as it flowed beneath the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges, right around past the South Street Seaport and the Manhattan Heliport (whence all the TV news crew, tourist and wealthy privately chartered flights depart), up to the Staten Island Ferry Terminal. And back again, by which time night was falling. Temperature during my walk was a pleasant -1 Celcius, little to no wind to speak of, and at my greyhound’s pace I was soon ticking warmly. The Lower East Side, while not my favorite place on earth to talk a long walk, is starting to knit together in my imagination. Ludlow, Essex, Orchard, Hester, Allen, Delancey, East Houston: after nearly a week of wandering around the neighborhood I’m finally remembering which streets are parallel or perpendicular to each other, which makes returning to one’s digs a much easier prospect.

Aside from the usual winter chill, the air is full of election talk, and it seems very likely that Obama has the necessary momentum to become the Democratic nominee. The “r” word – recession – is talked about in a variety of euphemisms, but the reality is evident in the drastic mark-downs apparent in almost every store, and in the discussion of Manhattan real estate being a buyer’s market.

Today I toured the Lower East Side Tenement Museum, which I’ve been meaning to do for years. The tours depart from the excellent museum shop right across the street from the perfectly preserved immigrant housing of the turn of the 20th century. To imagine these immigrant families squeezed in to tiny heat-free rooms, surviving on often less than $8 per week with a fried-egg roll a weekend treat, was almost impossible as I stood in the same rooms, decades later, extremely comfortable in my padded goose-down jacket and wool gloves.

Hot on the heels of my finished book came my copy of the February edition of Australian Bookseller & Publisher magazine, the trade magazine for the book industry. That’s a version of my book jacket as the cover design for this issue. (You’re right, my publisher UQP has not put a foot wrong.) After writing this blog for nearly two years it’s very strange to see myself now being described by third parties – I wonder who exactly they’re talking about – but turning to the review section I was very pleasantly surprised at the four-star review of my book:

“a beautiful memoir … absolutely lovely and very moving. Reading Lloyd’s reconstructions of [her and John's] conversations, and her later thoughts on life without her soul mate could be maudlin and soppy, but they actually shine with love and leave you feeling happy that there could be such love in the world.”

The actual printed book, as it turns out, doesn’t feel quite real at all. This is my conclusion after finding an Express Post satchel on my doorstep this afternoon when I got home from work, containing two finished copies of The Young Widow’s Book of Home Improvement. Relief, as if I had just crossed some invisible finish line, coursed through me like a rush of blood. I didn’t burst into tears, as I suspected I might, but felt sad and happy all at once. I picked up my book, turned it over, felt its weight; it seemed so contained and precise, when real life is chaotic and unfinished. One of the differences between a memoir and the life from which it’s written, I suppose.

It is part of the world’s nature and of our own to break, ruin and destroy; but it is also our nature and the world’s to find ways to mend what has been broken.

So writes novelist Michael Chabon in this impassioned, eloquent rallying call to US citizens to overcome what he suggests is their fear of disappointment, take responsibility for the outcomes of the political process, and vote for Barack Obama. On the eve of Super Tuesday, I thought I’d share it as it’s the most lyrical piece I’ve read about why the Presidency should be his.