I doubt that anyone has the same problem as I do when it comes to sunday's, but here it goes. Sundays for me have always been weird. Or they at least have the weirdest theme. I guess all the weirdos come out on that day.
It just so happen to be writing day for me today. Long time ago Wednesday used to be my writing day but I would never stick to it. Now I just write whenever.
So I drive up to the Caribou that I usually go to, sit in my car for a while, chat with my girl on the phone for a few and then I'm off to writing.
3:00pm
I enter and the place is fully stacked, looks like every seat has been taken and all I kept thinking was free coffee? oh please, free coffee day!
But it wasn't. I had to pay. Oh well. Then I sat down next to a woman who had one of those mini laptops. They look so cool. I'd say she was in her mid-fifties, had glasses and curly gray hair.
I was unloading my work station which consisted of my laptop(a compaq), extension cord, and two books; Just After Sunset and T is for Trespass, stacked on top of each other. The elderly woman took a glance and said, "Big Stephen King fan?"
"Oh Yeah," I said. "Love him."
"I was in his house."
I perked up. I don't know what it is, but I think I have one of those faces. The kind you can just confess to all and hope for the best. "Really?"
"Oh yeah. I used to live in Colorado. He'd give tours, him and his wife. They do a lot for the community. My work was just a couple of minutes away from his house."
"Wow," I said. "That's pretty impressive. Man, I just don't know how he's able to churn those books out one after the other."
"He's a recluse. That's why." Then she returned to her laptop, as if that last line should be the motto for all writers. I wonder if that's what it takes, to trap yourself inside your own work. Who knows?
5:00pm
I finish my short story (codename: one) and start reading some Stephen King. I pack up my stuff and exit.
5:50pm
After a quick detour to my car to ditch the laptop and books I get going, heading for the borders to skim through some books. Fifteen seconds later, I hear rapid footsteps. A man in a gray hoody is hauling ass around the corner as a cop is chasing after him. For some reason I was struck by the imagery of it all. I got little pictures in my head of silent movies where a crook would be dressed in stripes wearing an eye mask with a constable chasing, waving a nightstick.
The guy tries to hide in the parking lot, being indecisive as he stops between a silver pickup and a red dodge. "Stop! Down on the ground! On the ground!" The cop says, snapping me out of my reservoir of thoughts. Guess that hesitation cost him. If I would've still been near my car, that guy couldn't have been more than 25 feet across from me. Good thing I was across the street by then. Seven squads showed up. Wonder what the guy did.
6:00pm
I enter Borders the long way becuase there's a guy at the corner who is wearing rags, holding a red book with his thumb in the crease (I was thinking catcher in the rye but it could've been something else), with a cardboard sign half his height with sloppy writing. Couldn't read what it said but he was spouting stuff like, "It'll kill us! Wheat will kill us! We'll be looking at world war 3! We'll have to battle them UFO'S!"
Now you see why I took the long way?
Once inside, I planned on picking up No Plot? No Problem, a popular writing guide by Chris Batey who created the Nanowrimo site.
I found several books, jotted them down and was off.
I just knew I had to blog this. This day was too...off to be a normal day. Have you ever had a weird Sunday? Tell me about it. More important, I think it's good when stuff like this happens because it teaches us writers to be observers, also to remember the details. That's all it takes.
Currently on my must read list:
"We are by nature observers, and thereby learners. That is our permanent state." ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
It just so happen to be writing day for me today. Long time ago Wednesday used to be my writing day but I would never stick to it. Now I just write whenever.
So I drive up to the Caribou that I usually go to, sit in my car for a while, chat with my girl on the phone for a few and then I'm off to writing.
3:00pm
I enter and the place is fully stacked, looks like every seat has been taken and all I kept thinking was free coffee? oh please, free coffee day!
But it wasn't. I had to pay. Oh well. Then I sat down next to a woman who had one of those mini laptops. They look so cool. I'd say she was in her mid-fifties, had glasses and curly gray hair.
I was unloading my work station which consisted of my laptop(a compaq), extension cord, and two books; Just After Sunset and T is for Trespass, stacked on top of each other. The elderly woman took a glance and said, "Big Stephen King fan?"
"Oh Yeah," I said. "Love him."
"I was in his house."
I perked up. I don't know what it is, but I think I have one of those faces. The kind you can just confess to all and hope for the best. "Really?"
"Oh yeah. I used to live in Colorado. He'd give tours, him and his wife. They do a lot for the community. My work was just a couple of minutes away from his house."
"Wow," I said. "That's pretty impressive. Man, I just don't know how he's able to churn those books out one after the other."
"He's a recluse. That's why." Then she returned to her laptop, as if that last line should be the motto for all writers. I wonder if that's what it takes, to trap yourself inside your own work. Who knows?
5:00pm
I finish my short story (codename: one) and start reading some Stephen King. I pack up my stuff and exit.
5:50pm
After a quick detour to my car to ditch the laptop and books I get going, heading for the borders to skim through some books. Fifteen seconds later, I hear rapid footsteps. A man in a gray hoody is hauling ass around the corner as a cop is chasing after him. For some reason I was struck by the imagery of it all. I got little pictures in my head of silent movies where a crook would be dressed in stripes wearing an eye mask with a constable chasing, waving a nightstick.
The guy tries to hide in the parking lot, being indecisive as he stops between a silver pickup and a red dodge. "Stop! Down on the ground! On the ground!" The cop says, snapping me out of my reservoir of thoughts. Guess that hesitation cost him. If I would've still been near my car, that guy couldn't have been more than 25 feet across from me. Good thing I was across the street by then. Seven squads showed up. Wonder what the guy did.
6:00pm
I enter Borders the long way becuase there's a guy at the corner who is wearing rags, holding a red book with his thumb in the crease (I was thinking catcher in the rye but it could've been something else), with a cardboard sign half his height with sloppy writing. Couldn't read what it said but he was spouting stuff like, "It'll kill us! Wheat will kill us! We'll be looking at world war 3! We'll have to battle them UFO'S!"
Now you see why I took the long way?
Once inside, I planned on picking up No Plot? No Problem, a popular writing guide by Chris Batey who created the Nanowrimo site.
I found several books, jotted them down and was off.
I just knew I had to blog this. This day was too...off to be a normal day. Have you ever had a weird Sunday? Tell me about it. More important, I think it's good when stuff like this happens because it teaches us writers to be observers, also to remember the details. That's all it takes.
Currently on my must read list:
- The Man who Loved Books Too Much (didn't think that was possible)
- Dracula: The Un-dead (written by Bram Stoker's great grand nephew Dacre Stoker. This oughta be good!)
- The Lovely Bones (never read it)
- The Last Dickens
- Best American Short Stories 2009
"We are by nature observers, and thereby learners. That is our permanent state." ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
1 comment:
Free coffee LMAO! I wish I could be a recluse like Stephen King, but I'm like you, I've got one of those faces. And people are right, I can and will make conversation with anyone. I read the Lovely Bones--I give it a great big "eh" because it's a good book but it definitely tries too hard.
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