Here I sit in my usual chair out in public, sipping my chocolate-flavored coffee drink, thinking. I am thinking about the meeting I have to go to in an hour, thinking about how in the world I will hem this pair of pants tonight that is entirely too long on me, since I haven’t sewn in years, and I know I have to iron the hems into creases first but I’m not entirely sure what to do next, thinking of how if my mom were here she would show me how (and take over if I get frustrated) because she can sew anything, thinking of how adorable E looked in his hat last night when he met me at work, thinking how peculiar people are and how fascinating as I stare at them, like for example that woman standing over there looks almost exactly like Tina Turner, thinking of Tina Turner, thinking of my brother and hoping he’s okay, thinking of my baby sister and hoping she’s okay, lamenting the fact that I must have lost the Dresden Dolls’ “Sing” song when my iBook died because I must have forgotten to back it up and I can’t find the mp4 anywhere and that really sucks, thinking of my fingernails, thinking of the fact that tomorrow it will rain, thinking of the small steps I’m taking to change my life.
I am not thinking about what I’m going to write today, though I should be.
It is a painful subject, even inside my own head. I’m skirting around it. Even though I’ve said I wanted this year to be better—to try again, and maybe succeed this time—I haven’t done much to make that happen. This particular chair has seen me through a lot. I’ve ghostwritten three YA novels in it. I’ve written (started, stopped, restarted) numerous short stories in it. I’ve started a new novel in it. I’ve stopped a new novel in it. I hope it’s still here when I’m really ready to begin.