San Antonio averages 300 days of sunshine a year. Last Friday wasn’t one of them. The white patch in the chair is ice. My patio is somewhere under the lake. The scene begs for cliché. When
hail hell freezes over. When all hail hell breaks loose. Or to paraphrase Steinbeck, “I’ve lived in good climate, it bores the hail hell out of me. I like weather rather than climate.”
This isn’t the first time I’ve disagreed with Steinbeck.
Target had mittens on sale today. The high was ninety. Granted, ninety is an ice storm compared to a line of never-ending days over a hundred. But mittens? The sales department in Minnesota should take a road trip.
I started to title this post, How I Spent My Summer Vacation. But when you write full-time, you are never on vacation. You write. All the time. Which brings me to the point.
I finished the book.
That’s scary. I’ll say it again.
I finished the book.
Typing those words is like getting off the roller coaster and getting back in line. Seriously. I sent it to my Beta readers, and while I tap my fingers
in anticipation of their comments out of habit from pounding the keyboard, I’m lost. Between worlds.
I’ve never been good at transitions. I’m a full-out kind of girl. I’ve written a query. I’m stumbling through the synopsis. But it feels a little like watching the out-takes from the end of a Mary-Kate and Ashley video. I know there’s something better to do, but I haven’t gotten off the couch to find the remote.
I’ve been so immersed. I’ve developed a social anxiety about blogging. That thing where I avoid something so long, I’m intimidated–afraid of over-sharing. I have two choices: A.Quit B.Write every day. I’m going with B for a while, but I’m turning off the comments for the time being. I’m crazy enough to keep checking back to see if you’re reading. And, I can’t handle waiting on the Betas AND the blog readers.
The last time I saw Bob he was pouring a bottle of water over his head. He’d been running. In his seventies, he ran everyday. I don’t know how far. I don’t run, so any distance is too much for me.
I met him at the park. Several years ago, I missed a few months. When I came back, he stopped mid-stride to ask where I’d been. I told him about the vertigo. He congratulated me on making a comeback. He often asked about my kids or talked to my dog, who reminded him of a schnauzer he once loved. We sparred gently over politics and shared Spurs victories. He was a guy I knew in passing, a part of my daily routine.
Last week, Tropical Storm Hermine blew through, blowing down hundred-year-old oak trees and flooding the streets. When the sky cleared and the water receded, I went to the park. The regulars were there–walking dogs, jogging, talking about the storm. That’s how I heard about Bob’s death.
I didn’t know him well. I’d never seen him outside of his morning run, but talking to Bob made a difference. I’ll miss his friendly face.