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Vivian Davenport is your typical writer. She lives alone in the woods with seventeen cats, every back issue of Cosmopolitan Magazine since September 1965, and a framed autographed photo of Phyllis Diller. Divorced, she swears she's not bitter about her husband running off with a younger woman, who used to be a man. And she lies. Lies like a rug. (The photo of Phyllis Diller isn't autographed.) But she channels her mendacity into her fiction, which flourishes in a spot in the pretend world where we all like to live. And she likes nuts, all kinds.