I found my phone, so you can stop looking. It’s charging. Can’t wait to see how many messages on it.
I know I titled this one the writer’s life, but there was no writing in it, except for my day job writing. Man, things are rough right now for the truck and bus manufacturing industry. Actually, one of the coolest things about this new gig is learning how to use census and bureau of labor statistics data. All those numbers!
(My coworker and writer friend Lynett found a t shirt that said, “I was told there would be no math involved.” I said that should be mandatory for everyone in editorial at the big H. “What?! We have to calculate percentages?!”)
But there wasn’t any writing on the actual, you know, fiction. The plans are to get two more pages down on the current project, but K wanted to go to a friend’s hockey game, and as I haven’t seen said friend play all season, I am going too.
I know, the last hockey post had me whining about the cold, but it’s only one night. Not every night. Of the week. During playoffs. When there was defeat! Victory! And a nasty fight that really was a low point in the season.
Well! Let’s do it again!
Here’s how it happened. K was 12 and doing a hockey camp in San Antonio, of all places. The coach had those girls going from can to can’t, and by the end of the camp on Sunday, they were stumbling off the ice. Beautiful, athletic young women who were bulked up in protective gear, and they were dripping with sweat, barely able to move their skates, and absolutely amazing.
As the last whistle blew and they filed off the ice (still with enough energy to do a conga line, by the way), the figure skaters got on. For a second, the two sets of skaters mingled, the figure skaters glittering and graceful, their sleeves and skirts fluttering, and the hockey players lumbering and oversized.
And I thought: Ah! Trolls and fairies!