Watching the street

Okay, so I’m doing what a writer should never do. I’m watching the street. I’ve got three projects open on my desktop and I still find an excuse about every half hour to go to the door and peek out the little side window.

Book posters are supposed to come today. Barnes and Noble needs them for the window display. Fed Ex called yesterday when the posters were supposed to be here. They had my address wrong. Is this an omen? Fed Ex never gets addresses wrong.

When I first started freelancing, delivery trucks and postal delivery people were the highlights of my day. Everything related to my livelihood had to be delivered. The only thing that’s changed is now I also watch my email, as though I were standing at an imaginary window in cyberspace, watching for the little icon to float into my inbox, a missive possibly from that special book festival director who gushes, “Oh, yes! Ms. Day we positively must have you at our event!”

Writers are pathetic, yes we are.

There’s a nice writeup in Jacksonville’s daily newspaper about Killing Earl. Great shot of my daughters, both of whom contributed to the book. The story is the second one in the column, not the one about ice skating. Southerners can't skate on ice, not without a whole lot of training, anyway.

I finally finished the handout I’ll place on my table at the Friday launch. It’s for a special National Poetry Month program I put together. Still slogging through email. “Aren’t you excited?” a friend asks.

“I’m a basket case,” I replied.

Writers are pathetic, yes we are.