Writing

Sometimes I’m set adrift to come ashore in a place totally unexpected, if not unaccepted. I just got to resolve to make the most of it, because there is truly a purpose in why things happen. Sometimes I have a tendency not to hang around to hear what the rest of the story might be.

I resolved to write again. Inspirations come from unlikely shores. I sat on a low stool in Border’s. The high shelves towered over me like the skyscrapers in New York City. I didn’t dare look up, fearing I’d tip over trying to see the titles on the top shelf. Instead, I noticed the carpet, a mottled collection of specs that hid pieces of soiled humanity trudged in from the street. The thought left me scrambling for the information desk to grab a piece of paper and pen and scribble my thoughts down before they could be swept away with a wave of depression.

Normally, I’d avoid book stores. Coming face to face with the volumes of new books from the competition hits my gut as hard as a burrito at ten PM. Leaves me depressed. But on Saturday I sat in the Christian section, a small collection of books compared to the numbers in the entire store. I considered both sides of the situation. A good thing. An opportunity with limited competition. Or a bad thing. Limited market for Christian books. If I discounted the various Bibles and “daily readers” the market looked a lot smaller. Lord, there is no way to make a living offering up tales of Christianity unless I have a platform – like speaking from the pulpit. No Lord, I ain’t asking for that.

Writing on Saturday wasn’t expected. Normally, I take the weekends off from my grueling schedule of drifting through the days, hacking away at a couple of lame blogs, cropping monster mega-pixel photos into small, but still uninspiring snapshots, pilling an old cat and cleaning the litter box.

Fortunately, I got the coolest public library in Saratoga Springs. I can talk on the cell phone, use free wi-fi, eat donuts and drink coffee and spread my shit all over a four-person table and nobody says peep to me. The hours are convenient opening by 9 am six days a week. I’ve found a table that has become a good place to write, off in a corner, but not so secluded that I can’t observe other patrons or overhear some interesting conversations that people really should be whispering in lower tones.

“I knew this was going got happen. Jeff can be so unpredictable. I was just being nice and then this happens…”

Expect I can’t take more than three hours of sitting. I need to break the writing time with a inside view of a refrigerator, a quick check of the news on Fox, a short stroll outside or even a conversation with Phoenix and Diablo. That is the advantage of writing at home. Here I muster a walk to the restroom and pray nobody steals my laptop.

“It doesn’t matter. The damage has already been done. The line has been crossed.” Listen to those clichés! “Respect him? Is he going to dictate my life? Why is his radio still on?”

Focus, Valerie, focus.

I am trying to make the most of living at home with Dad this summer. I’ve gone back to writing something worth some significance, even if it is not my novel…at least at this time.

“How can he do that? I’ve never done anything like that.”

As it comes along, I’ll share. I’ll have to, but for now, let me write. For now…focus, focus, focus.

“I haven’t seen Jeff for years. You see what I’m saying? For me to get into this….”

Oh boy. Don’t you wonder what Jeff did? Sorry, I’m not hanging around to hear the rest of this story.