One Thing
July 7, 2006
7:00 a.m.
Here's something that happened recently: I was in Evanston, Illinois. We were here because Brigid continues to defy my orders, and is growing up. She will be a High School senior this year, and is in this college town for a six-week period in which she will eventually take two classes--computer science, and calculus. She was going to learn Latin, but due to a lack of interest from any other student across the globe, she has had to settle for computer science. That's a topic for another time, I suppose. To cut a longish story down, Brigid and Lisa were off shopping. I was waiting on a streetside sidewalk. We were downtown, so normally cars would have been rushing by. But the city had blocked off several streets for a local artist's weekend. So tons of people milled around, and music was in the air. I watched them for awhile, then noticed I was standing beside a bookstore. Barnes and Nobles, I think. Being pathologically unable to ignore a bookstore, I gazed in. Bookstores are religious experiences, I think. They feel powerful to me, anyway. So I peered through the glass at people shopping. Slowly, my eye roved to different places. Then, for whatever reason, my gaze focused on the book in the stand closest to the window. Two copies. One displayed cover, the other spine. Again, for whatever reasons my eyes went to the spine. Just the half of the spine, actually. The book's color was red. The words printed were pure white. The word I fixated on was simple. Seven letters: COLLINS. For just an instant all I saw was the red book, with the white letters of my name. Not me, of course. It was shocking enough, though. I think my breathing halted in mid-exhale.   I wrote words today. New words. I have no idea if the story is any good yet, it's just too soon. But that doesn't matter right now. They are words, simple as they might be. Or whatever. Life is good. Have a great day.  Daily Persistence is © Ron Collins |
|
I said that writing is a craft, not an art, and that the man who runs away from his craft because he lacks inspiration is fooling himself. He is also going broke. William Zinsser |
BACK TO 
|