So anyone who knows me or perhaps even occasionally reads this blog knows that I'm pretty much always in flux. It's no coincidence that one of Elili's favorite words is "suitcase."  My husband and I are big movers, and we have a tendency to shake stuff up.  (Did you notice how I said "stuff" instead of "shit"?  You see that?  That's the result of being a mom of a kid who now repeats every word I say.  I think that may also mean I am officially a grown-up.)  Anyhow, the point is I've been a little MIA lately, and probably will be for the next month or so, as this last phase of major flux begins to wind down a bit and we start settling down again.  But before I go away, I'm going to be posting some summer must-reads over the next couple of days, alongside the 5 questions.  First up is Diana Spechler and her fabulous new novel SKINNY. Now, if you are one of those lucky people who feels good about the way they look and has never had a moment's doubt about the circumference of their thighs, then don't read this book. Instead, please go eat and enjoy a milkshake, on me, so then I can live vicariously through you.  If you are, however, like everyone else I know, and have struggled with body issues, this is a fascinating look at the intersection of food and love and loss and the various ways we seek to fill ourselves up.  This book is honest and painful and frighteningly real.

Thank you Diana for so graciously agreeing to answer the Five Questions:

1.  Where were you the first time you saw your book in a bookstore and who did you call first?

In 2008, to celebrate the release of my debut novel, WHO BY FIRE, I gave a reading in Dallas, where my family lives. The day before the reading, my mother and I drove to a nearby bookstore because I'd heard through the publishing grapevine that authors should "sign stock" to get their autographed copies on display at the front of the store.

I asked the first employee I saw, "May I sign my stock?"

"Oh," she said, pressing her fingertips to her chest. She cocked her head, smiling as if I'd used broken English and she didn't want to offend me by asking me to repeat myself.

"I'm an author," I said quietly. I still felt uncomfortable with that identification; I'd been an author for approximately fourteen hours. "I can sign my book."

She asked me for the title and then scampered off to find it. Waiting in the front of the store, I heard a throat clear over the loud speaker. And then: "Shoppers!"

I looked around. The "shoppers" in my line of vision didn't flinch. They continued drinking their coffee, running their index fingers along rows of book spines.

"We have an author in the store!" the voice continued. Then she tried to pronounce my name: "Di-an-a Spe-speshler."

I crossed my arms over my chest and looked around again at the shoppers. When no one reacted, I wondered if I was dreaming.

"Go on up to the front of the store and say hello. She wrote a book," she said, somehow making wrote a book sound like finally went pee-pee in the potty. "And she's here to visit with us."

A minute later, the employee emerged with two copies of my book and a black marker. Smiling, she said, "Just stand right here. I'm sure everyone will want to meet you."

No one wanted to meet me. Why would anyone want to meet me?

I stood around for five minutes, smiling at no one like a pageant contestant, and then I ran back outside to my mother's car.

2.  I'm convinced all writers are a little bit crazy. Do you agree, and if so, what kind of crazy are you?

Of course I agree, although not necessarily with the "a little bit" part. I'll give you a couple of personal examples:

I have a writing dress, a giant black sleeveless tent from the Gap. I wore it every single day last summer. I began to think that if I didn't wear it, I would get writer's block or someone's favorite baseball team would suffer a losing streak.

I'm also prone to the kind of crying jags that transcend jags and teeter on seizures. If I read a book I love; if something reminds me of the house I grew up in; if I see an old man, alone, eating a muffin and dropping crumbs on his shirt, I'll cry so hard, I'll suffocate. If I decide to call someone (because who wants to cry alone?), I respond to "What's wrong?" with something made up because I'm crying too hard to justify the true catalyst.

I'm that kind of crazy.

3.  If you were going to have another author write your biography, who would you choose to write it and why? Any title ideas?

Some months ago, I asked my four- and six-year-old nieces if they wanted to write books. For each of them, I folded a few pieces of computer paper in half and stapled along the crease. Then they talked and I transcribed. The four-year-old wrote a semi-incoherent story called I Married The Fire. Then, laughing maniacally, she crayoned furious orange scribbles all over the cover. I held the finished product up to study it and decided that her book wasn't in fact incoherent, but a satire of modern marriage. I decided that she was a genius.

She can write my biography, title it, and do the cover art.

4.  When did you start to take yourself seriously as a writer?

High school. I wrote poems about death, even though I'd never met anyone who died, except my dog. Once, I stapled all of the death poems together and gave the "book" to my best friend. I think she still has it.

5.  If your house was burning down, and you had time to rescue only three books from your library, what would you choose and why?

I live in a small studio apartment, so I try to get rid of my books as quickly as I read them. I just don't have space for a library. Besides, if I read a great book, I want to give it away. It's like love. Wait…is it? No, I'm more possessive in that department. It's like music. When I hear a great song, I want everyone to hear it. Anyway, I don't have many books, but maybe that's not the point of this question. If you're just asking for a few of my favorite book titles, then I'm making my answer needlessly complicated.

I love so many books, it's impossible to choose, but three I loved within the past year were The Adults by Alison Espach, A Visit From The Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan, and Room by Emma Donoghue.