“Four years,” the landlord said. “I remember because we signed the lease on my fiftieth birthday.”
Voilà. No idea where I’ll be living next but a calm transition, as far as breaking the news went. Don’t waste money on a registered letter, he added, and signed off a bon pour accord on my hand-delivered copy. Now, if I can just get my hands on some more cardboard boxes. But mostly, if I can get a yes or a no on one of the job options, I’ll know where to focus my search for the next living space. Quiet, ground level, near shops and other services, that much is clear.
But most of the energy went in revision today. The litmus test is always the same: if I hit a spot in my own writing that bores me, I remove it to the holding pen in case there’s anything worth saving in it. Pick up again where my attention was fully engaged.
At the market this morning, someone asked me what I was up to these days. He looked perplexed when I gave him the same answer as the last time he asked. “Writing is really a thing with you, isn’t it?” he said.
Yes, you might say that, I answered.
The look on his face provides the title for this late afternoon Sunday post.