Right now, it's not raining. The early morning was glorious. I zipped up hill to the Volcano Farmers' Market, which has become a hangout of sorts for me on Sundays. The air was cool enough to justify my long pants and sleeves, like early autumn in the Great Pacific Northwest. The place was packed. It's always busy, but today was especially so, a hive pulsing with busy bee activity. The sticky bun lady ran out of sticky buns by 7:30. I arrived at 7:35, so had to settle for cherry turnovers. Not a bad concession.
I'm suppose to be writing. I have two vague story prompts rattling around inside my head, ideas that are products of my memory and life. I want to write these stories. I do. I'm also scared to death of both of them. I'm a big chicken. There's a reason I don't write non-fiction. It takes cojones and, truth be told, I ain't got any. Never did. I'll ski the headwall at Crested Butte, but truthful writing, even in the form of fiction (and I do mean real fiction, not the formulaic, genre kind), takes real courage. I keep repeating the mantra, It's fiction. It's fiction. It's fiction... Then, Grow a pair. Grow a pair. Grow a pair. I want to believe that, by the time I finish with these stories, change the names of the guilty and innocent alike, embellish and make some stuff up, well, eventually they will be. Fiction, that is. And interesting enough for someone other than my college mentor to read through to the end. It's time to buck up, grow and pair and write.
You know how I said that at the moment it was not raining? Well that was moments ago, an eternity in the rainforest. That was then and this is now and the clouds are threatening. Still, it was a lovely morning. It cheered me up. Back at the market, the lady who makes green papaya soup smiled at me. I made the jam guy and his customer laugh. The vegetable woman grinned and blushed when I wished her Happy Thanksgiving. The hand-made tortilla dude clapped when I grabbed a dozen. The photographer showed me her new line of customer embroidered kitchen towels.
"I just thought of it and made a few and now they're selling," she said. She's got a keen eye and a golden touch. The coffee lady was comically frazzled enough by her long line of patrons that, rather than try to remember who she owed change and how much, just pointed and said, "Go ahead and take what's coming to you out of the chicken." It was a ceramic chicken; a cookie jar. She uses it as a cash drawer. I'm guessing she may come up a little short today, but she too was in a fine mood and probably won't mind. The sun was shining, the atmosphere sweet. The moss and the trees and the ferns and the people seemed giddy for the chance to kick off their rubber boots, shake off their drips, drop their umbrellas, lower their hoods, ditch their snorkels and come up for air. Yes, I'm in a swell mood, so much so that I think I'll zip back up the hill and spend some time at the gym. Wait a minute. I've got work to do. It's fiction, it's fiction, it's fiction... grow a pair, grow a pair, grow a pair... Maybe another cup of tea.
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