Spring is here and I am crying.
Not because I’m sad, but because allergies suck, my eyes water. So consider this the Crying Blog. Only, um, I’m not dressed as a woman. Because that would make you laugh and I am already funny looking as it is.
Yesterday, as I was brushing my teeth before bed (mmm, mint), I was thinking of a scene where two people are talking while brushing their teeth. How would the dialog actually go? After all, these two have toothbrushes stuffed in their mouths. Why are they brushing their teeth together? Are they lovers? Married lovers? Comfortable roommates? Sisters? And what type of dialog would be important enough to have someone brush their teeth and talk at the same time? Are these sisters talking about their boyfriends? What would be the conflict? Obviously, brushing together has some type of familiarity, otherwise…
And that is when it hits me.
I am a man obsessed: obsessed by writing, by telling a story through writing.
Writing invades my thoughts constantly. Even when I talk to The Wife Unit, God help me. For example, today, there is some roof guy coming out to look at our roof. We think one of the skylights may be leaking. Because that is what skylights do in the Pacific Northwest, other than letting in cloud-filtered light in the winter.
Anyway, she’s talking to me about the roof. This is serious business. If you own your own home, the roof has to be good. Or you are screwed. But I digress. One ear is listening to The Wife Unit. But I am also thinking about a different roof problem. What if the roof guy, just minding his own business, discovers the leak is caused by a hole. A rock sized hole. And there, in the attic, is a rock.
From space. But he doesn’t know that.
He picks it up. There is a symbol on this rock. He shrugs, puts it in his pocket, and fixes the roof with a patch, some felt and three new shingles. That will be $300 ma’am, have a nice day. You sure are cute, but I see the gun safe so the husband has the potential to take any flirty banter the wrong way, so I’ll just be polite. Man I love an hour-and-a half of work for $300.
The roof guy leaves. He puts the rock in his toolkit; he assumes it came from one of the windstorms. He forgets about the rock.
But the rock hasn’t forgotten about him!
My entire day goes like this.
In a way, I feel I am blessed. For one, The Wife Unit has yet to hit me on the head with a heavy steel cooking pan (one wonders if she has thought about this, however). I could also have worse obsessions, like 17-22 year old baristas at the coffee shop. Er, wait. I could have worse obsessions, but sometimes I wish writing was less like a sneeze. Once the sneeze starts, you just gotta let it out. Otherwise, it comes across as a chocking snort that doesn’t feel good, rattles your head, and gives you a headache.
Thank you, I am. I really really am, and I smile everyday my fingers touch the keyboard.