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Isabel Cowles



Call me Ishmael. Never mind. This is my book. Call me Isabel. And call this article my first novel. In my Intro to Comparative Literature class (a requirement I'd neglected until this penultimate semester) three enthusiastic students -- all freshmen -- ardently flailed spread palms in the air in response to the professor's inquiry as to who among us had written a book.


It's 1:20 a.m. on a Thursday night, and I've lost my dignity. I become painfully aware of this as the heel of my shoe cleaves itself between two bricks and interrupts the flow of my hopping up and down.
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