Part of an evening alone to write. Bliss. And a chance to watch the news without muting violence for the sake of my young who are away at a rehearsal. And what’s this? The PBS NewsHour! Don’t mind if I do! The draft on the dining room table will wait. After all, I’ve highlighted and outlined and made notes and have great plans for how I will conjure its eventual elegance.
I’m so delighted by the warm fire in the fireplace, a steaming bowl of rice with butter and sugar, vapid purring cats, that I’m barely listening. But wait! I know that face. Why… That young reporter from Politico… Why yes it is! One of the kids from a senior high class at the Presbyterian church I attended, in part for its excellent arts programming. One of many PK’s I taught/managed/mentored/endured. He does well!
Well, well. I turn off the news, make popcorn, glance at the draft, and, for curiosity, Google his reporter’s bio. Princeton, Columbia, Chicago Tribune, Livingston Award, time in the Afghan desert for the Washington Post, and part of a Pulitzer finalist investigative team. Well, well.
I glance at my draft. In the mid-90’s, this kid spent several weeks looking up all occurrences of the word “ass” in a Biblical concordance and snickering. So now he’s become a writer. A journalist. And I’m still a writer. With a lot of writing to do.
It just doesn’t feel the same as it did twenty minutes ago.
