It is Thursday, June something, and this is what I wake to, the points above, written, alas, in a huge newspaper, the New York Times, a newspaper as wide as the world, with print as black as an old bruise. My new book -- the book I love best of all my books, my baby -- has been panned by a woman named Maslin, named Janet. She hates it. She hates me. Her dislike seems to seep from the spaces between the words, and my first response, after reading it twice -- "'Lying' flogs these important things to the point where they cease being important ... though she has already cataloged a full litany of complaints including depression, anorexia and self-mutilation, Ms. Slater now locates a whole new vein of illness to mine ..." -- after reading the review twice, no, three times, I do what any good illness memoirist would do. I reach for the shelf and take my meds.

I take, to be specific, two Valium, which I keep on hand for emergencies such as these. The drug is fast-acting and sweet, and soon I am calm enough to eat a corn muffin. I sit at my kitchen table and think. How could she say I'm so self-absorbed? Me? ME? Self-absorbed? I'm so nice that the mice I catch in sticky traps I later free in the woods, five miles from my home. I don't eat meat. I don't eat chicken. I personally palpate my dog's anal sacs because he's so afraid of the vet. Me? ME? Self absorbed? I love animals and people, and to top it off I'm a psychotherapist, goddamit, I'm in the helping profession; I don't whine, I listen to other people whine, me? ME? ME?

I call my husband at work. "I got a terrible review in the Times," I say.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"The reviewer basically accuses me of being narcissistic, solipsistic and writing too much about illness. That's not true," I say. "Don't you think?"

He doesn't say anything.

"Listen sweetie," I say, "Today is not the day I want your honest response. Lie to me."

"Honestly," he says, "you do write a lot about yourself, and yourself as ill, but I like your books."

"I don't believe you," I say.

"Really," he says.

"I'm going to call her," I say.

"Call who?" he says.

"The reviewer," I say, "Janet Maslin."

"I don't think that's a good idea," he says. "Why don't you calm down first?"

But I am calm. And it suddenly occurs to me, or the me-on-Valium, that this is exactly what I need to do. I need to call Ms. Maslin up on the phone and have a heart-to-heart.

Exactly what my heart will say to her heart is not clear to me, but the urge to hear her voice is. I feel, I suppose, a little like a jilted lover. A very powerful person has rejected me, and there is nothing like rejection to stir that little crimson clementine in our chests. I am stirred. I hang up with my husband. I imagine Ms. Maslin as very tall, with handsome hair and a freshly sharpened pencil tucked behind a compact ear. I imagine her briefcase, well-worn and Coach; her Manhattan apartment, where a cat curls on top of a sleek black stereo set. She is impeccable, powerful and beautiful, with a brain like a blade. I must redeem myself in her eyes. I must reason with her. I must persuade her to write another review, I must make her feel guilty. I call her.

I'm surprised by how easy it is to find her. All you have to do is call information and get the main number for the New York Times. Then you tell the gum-snapping operator on the other end of the phone that you'd like to speak with Janet Maslin. It's as though they've been waiting for my call. Not a second's hesitation, the operator ferrets me through.

Maya Angelou reads from "The Heart of a Woman"