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The other night, my pointer finger slid down the screen of my iPhone three times in a matter of seven minutes. Patrick finally looked at me and asked the obvious question. What are you doing?
"Oh nothing," I sighed. "Just waiting for the e-mail that's going to change my life."
Hi. My name is Claire Gibson and I'm a freelance-aholic. It's been twenty-four hours since the last e-mail that convinced me that I am worth something to the world.
Recently, I had lunch with a woman whose husband is in the process of dying from cancer. Sitting across the table from her, I suddenly felt completely overwhelmed. "How do you do it?" I asked. "How do you even function?"
"Abby, don't look now but Malcomb Gladwell just walked in."
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, she looks. I don't blame her. When the greatest journalist of your generation shows up at your favorite coffee shop—you look.
There once was a young girl who slept on a pallet of blankets on the floor.
And for those of you who, like me, are a little behind the power curve—we need to start paying attention to what is happening in Eastern Europe.