I went to Starbucks for coffee this morning for the first time in over a week. Tom showed up. I hadn't seen him since the day after the flood.
After coffee I drove up to Seacoast Science Center to see if they had the 1997 tide tables yet. They didn't. It was raining. The ocean smelled lowtideish in the rain. Mist rose from the salt marshes.
I listened to Fresh Air on the car radio. She was interviewing Alice Munro. When Munro described the kind of staring into space she needs to be able to write fiction I felt a twinge. Exactly the same kind of thing I am afraid to give myself., Despite having quit my day job I force myself to be busy and feel guilty and misdirected when I'm not. I pretend I I'm giving myself space to write but I find countless errands real and imagined so I can pretend to be busy to placate the unseen judges telling me to get out and do something.
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