Recent Posts

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

How does this keep happening?

Weeks pass by and I don't blog. I don't no why. It's a problem. I know.

I'm still waiting for a response from the agent about the book. It's been three months. It's very close to that point when I start to really freak out about whether I sent it to the right email address or whether she hates it or whether she's passing it around the office and all the other agents are laughing at how incredibly badly written it is. Probably none of these things are happening. But, you know...I worry. At what point is it acceptable to shoot an email asking about it? I don't know the answer to this.

Last night I went running. At some point a car sidled up next to me and I took the earbuds out of my ear and I looked at this old man leaning out the window of the car and he looks at me. He asks me, "Are you the young man my wife was just talking to?" I say, "No." Then he says, "Did your mother pass away?" And I say, "No. I think you might have the wrong person." He says, "Ok."

Then he drives to the next road and pulls a you-ee and stops right in front of me and his wife opens the car door and she has a wicker basket with a loaf of bread and some cookies in it. She holds the basket close. She asks me, "Are you the young man I just spoke to?" I say, "No." She looks very sad. She says, "Did you pass anyone on the way?" I say, "No...I don't think so. But I've been sort of in my own world, though." She says, "I understand. It's just I talked to a young man earlier and he looked so sad and he said that his mama died three years ago today and I tried to talk to him but he just wanted to be alone." She pauses and I look at the basket in her lap. Now I am sad. I say, "That's terrible..." She nods and she looks at the basket. She looks very lost. She says, "I have four sons. Three of them are adopted from Russia. And I'm old, and my husband...he's 81. I just, I can't imagine how my sons will feel. I don't want them to be orphaned again."

She stops talking. Her husband doesn't look at me. He looks at the steering wheel. I say, "That's terrible..." She says, "It's alright," and then she clutches the basket tighter and closes the car door. I wish her luck on her search. They drive away. I run away.

Maybe I'll wait until the end of May to inquire about the book.