Welp, after a week of beautiful spring weather, someone went and reminded Massachusetts that it's still March. It's been rainy and cold, or in other words, amazing reading weather. I've been taking the bus to work so I can get in as much time reading Andre Dubus III's memoir, Townie, as I can. It was a lovely surprise, getting sucked into this book I picked up as a last minute decision on my way out of the library a week or so ago. And now I want to check out all of Andre Dubus Sr.'s short stories. I feel the itch again, to write something new, to show a bit of the world as I see it to someone, even if it's just the someones in my writing group or some of you here.
It's become my Thursday morning, work-from-home day ritual to get up at my normal time, take the trash out, and sit at 1369 reading until 9 o'clock. I've been taking notes on overheard conversations again, little details on characters on the bus, things that these three kids said at the bus stop yesterday afternoon that had me wondering what I was like at that age, concluding I was never that brash, never that outspoken. A part of me admired those kids for all they've figured out so young, another part mourned their loss of something I had then, something that didn't require my learning so much so soon. Today, while reading, I jotted this down, as encouragement, as reminder:
"What good does writing do, Mom? Who cares about making up stories? I want to do something important for people."
It was as if I'd reached over and slapped her face with a damp rag. "I can't believe you just said that, Andre. I won't tell anyone you just said that."
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