I’m deep into revisions for my novel IMAGINARY GIRLS (don’t hold me to the title) and I am apparently a danger to myself and those around me. I wandered the supermarket aisle of my local Gristedes last night in search of tomato sauce and bread, juggling baby tomatoes and blueberries, both of which were not on the list, lost in thought while I reworked a scene inside my own head, almost knocking over a display of discount granola. I wandered toward the line and dropped all my stuff on the conveyor belt and it wasn’t until I’d turned around that I realized I’d cut the line. I apologized and the guy behind me kindly said I shouldn’t worry, it’s not like he was standing back there hating me. Thank you, I said. I paid, shuffled the stuff between a canvas bag and a plastic one when not everything could fit in the canvas, got told by the cashier to hit OK, again because I didn’t hear her hit OK, so I hit OK, and left, completely forgetting to sign and digging around in the bags at every street corner wondering if I paid at all and did they give me a receipt? Then I almost got hit by a cab in the street.
Writing is dangerous. I think this novel is going to be even better than before, if that’s any consolation.