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    My daily writing--emails, journal entries, marginalia, more emails, blog posts, and tweets--shapes me as a writer, helping and hindering the big stuff I'm trying to accomplish. Every word counts.

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Going Around the Block to Get Next Door

1:29 p.m.
AAAAHHHHH! Everybody and everything are in my way today. I wanted nothing more than to get to the coffeehouse and do some writing. On my way out the door it started to rain and so one of the dogs freaked out a little, probably because she expected thunder. I had to wait until she calmed down then repeat parts of my crazy OCD routine because my anxiety was amped up.

On the way I got behind a moron in the passing lane, which isn’t unusual but always bad. The drive-up ATM wasn’t working, so I had to get out of the car and go inside. That took an extra 90 seconds! Then I got stuck behind a truck with an enormous load of lumber. It trudged along and of course didn’t turn off to 522 but continued straight down Market Street, right in front of me all the way to the side street where I usually park, but it was closed so five workers could re-paint lines for the six spaces on that street.

Okay. I’m here. I’m fine. Gosh, that really wasn’t so bad.

1:47 p.m.
Some under-parented child keeps hovering at the end of my table. She’s wearing ruby slippers (well, red sequined slippers, but still very Dorothy (Gale, not Zbornak)). So I’ve got to give her props, but her constant dancing and jabbering and staring at me are really pretty distracting, mainly because the two adults with her (parents I presume) aren’t paying much attention to her. They could be interacting with her, but apparently a laptop and a newspaper are more interesting than a child.

If it were a loud, annoying adult, I could just turn up my music. And if I were a truly vicious person, I’d have to point out that her little ruby slippers don’t exactly go with the lilac stripes in her sundress. But I hate to see a kid ignored. They probably think the looks I’m giving them is judgment on their kid. No, dude; I’m judging you. Parent is also a verb. Try it.

Oh, he’s talking to her. Hey, I’m good. Like a psychic supernanny.

2:03 p.m.
What did I come here to write? Oh, yeah. Scene: Sarah tells Blaine that she and Eric are going to get married. Okay, okay, okay–I can totally do this.


“I think it’s great.” Blaine doesn’t lie. He likes the idea and thinks marriage might work for them. They won’t have sex, but they love each other. But he feels odd, forced to pick a side, afraid that his questions have insulted them, even though they asked for his opinion and wanted to talk the decision through with him.

More than anything, he still feels a little jealous. They know what they have with each other. Maybe with a little more time, and if not for Henry, it could have been him instead of Eric. Or–another, more likely possibility comes to him–Sarah would have met Eric anyway, and Blaine has missed an opportunity. As much as he loves Henry, it would be nice to get to know Eric, who is right there within reach. He feels guilty, as if he’s wishing to undo the last year. But if he’d never met Henry, there’d be nothing to undo.

Sarah tells him it’s going to be a quick ceremony. He doesn’t have to come unless he wants to play witness.

“Are you asking me?”

“I’m asking you,” she says.

“I’d love to be there.”

3:55 p.m.
Done for now. The supermarket awaits.


2 Responses

  1. I’m very curious as to who Sarah and Eric might be…

    They seem to be newcomers ’round here.

    • One is a newcomer. The other is an old friend (who is emerging as more important to the story).

      Glad you’re curious. More to come…

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