For a critically acclaimed novelist who has just received the worst notices of her career, A.M. Homes seems remarkably unfazed. Dressed in shapeless black pants, gray sneakers, garish red socks and a Fred Segal shirt emblazoned with images of Santa Monica lifeguard stations, she bears only a wan resemblance to the photograph of the sultry seductress that adorns the inside flap of her new book. Though she inhabits one of the most picturesque sections of New York’s Greenwich Village, she claims to spend most of her time inside her apartment and, once there, inside her own busy head. In... More >>>