ahream

Husband: (talking over dinner) “…so that meeting lasted for-freaking-ever, and when I finally got out, Matt was already gone. And I couldn’t even get to half the crap I wanted to.” (shovels forkful of meatball into his mouth) “So what about you?”

Me: “Let’s see. Today, I set up some book events, edited chapter eleven. Oh, and Emily had a miscarriage. It was so sad.”

Husband: “Who’s Emily?”

I can’t…It’s too…This is so embarrassing.

Emily is a woman I DON’T EVEN KNOW. And yet, she’s dinner table conversation at my house. I know more about what’s going on in her life than members of my own family’s. I am fascinated by her. I hang on to her every word. In short, I read her blog.

Every. Single. Day. I look forward to it. I wonder about it. I think about it. I may need some sort of professional help.

I read about her haircuts and her birthday parties and her home improvement projects. And you really have to ask yourself, why do I give a rat’s patootie about this woman’s curling iron collection? And the answer is: BECAUSE SHE’S ME.

No really, go with me on this.

We both went to journalism school. We both got married around the same time. We’re both the same age. We both worked as copy editors. (My stint was pretty brief.) We’re both neat freaks. We’re both runners. Except, and this is the part that fascinates me, I put everything on hold to be a writer, and she wants to be a writer but put everything on hold to be a mom. She went left, and I went right.

It’s as if I made my choice, but still have the opportunity to see what might have happened in some crazy, parallel universe kind of way. Internet as crystal ball.

Also internet as pipeline into psychiatric disorder because when you think about it, I’m basically conducting a friendship with a woman who DOESN’T KNOW I EXIST. I’m pretty sure there’s something about that in the psychiatric diagnostic manual…

So please, let’s just keep this little bit of crazy between us.

Next blog post: Me at the Regent Beverly Wilshire with Pia Zadora – a true story

ahream Dispatches from the City of Angels I'm a mystery writer living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my short story, "Running Venice," in the new anthology LAndmarked for Murder. Look for it in bookstores and on Amazon.com now. In the meantime, feel free to poke around. Over at my website you can find even more blog entries than I could fit here, as well as a few other ramblings. Enjoy and come back often.
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Previous Entry :: Next Entry Read/Post Comments (1) Most Recent Twitters: Reading Tony Broadbent's book, The Smoke. It's too good. I'm losing sleep. Nocturnal pattern shot to hell. Productivity declining. L.A. Finds: The Denver omelet at Pat's in Topanga is sublime in its simplicity. Exactly what you need and nothing else, much like the restaurant itself snuggled smack in the middle of an old hippie community where the peace signs and tie-dye still reign. Flickr Updates: The second Thursday of every month is the Downtown Art Walk. The galleries stay open late, the restaurants are packed, bands perform on the streets. God, I love L.A. What I'm Reading: The Smoke by Tony Broadbent What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami Want E-Mail Updates? Click here, type your e-mail address into the first field (for public entries) and receive an e-mail note each time a new blog post goes up. (Photo updates, Twitters and "L.A. Finds" features not included. Those you have to swing by and check yourself.) Absolutely, positively no spam. Promise. Other author blogs: Sue Ann Jaffarian Eric Stone Christa Faust Lipstick Chronicles		2007-11-06 11:09 AM It’s official. I’m a stalker. Husband: (talking over dinner) “…so that meeting lasted for-freaking-ever, and when I finally got out, Matt was already gone. And I couldn’t even get to half the crap I wanted to.” (shovels forkful of meatball into his mouth) “So what about you?” Me: “Let’s see. Today, I set up some book events, edited chapter eleven. Oh, and Emily had a miscarriage. It was so sad.” Husband: “Who’s Emily?” I can’t…It’s too…This is so embarrassing. Emily is a woman I DON’T EVEN KNOW. And yet, she’s dinner table conversation at my house. I know more about what’s going on in her life than members of my own family’s. I am fascinated by her. I hang on to her every word. In short, I read her blog. Every. Single. Day. I look forward to it. I wonder about it. I think about it. I may need some sort of professional help. I read about her haircuts and her birthday parties and her home improvement projects. And you really have to ask yourself, why do I give a rat’s patootie about this woman’s curling iron collection? And the answer is: BECAUSE SHE’S ME. No really, go with me on this. We both went to journalism school. We both got married around the same time. We’re both the same age. We both worked as copy editors. (My stint was pretty brief.) We’re both neat freaks. We’re both runners. Except, and this is the part that fascinates me, I put everything on hold to be a writer, and she wants to be a writer but put everything on hold to be a mom. She went left, and I went right. It’s as if I made my choice, but still have the opportunity to see what might have happened in some crazy, parallel universe kind of way. Internet as crystal ball. Also internet as pipeline into psychiatric disorder because when you think about it, I’m basically conducting a friendship with a woman who DOESN’T KNOW I EXIST. I’m pretty sure there’s something about that in the psychiatric diagnostic manual… So please, let’s just keep this little bit of crazy between us. Next blog post: Me at the Regent Beverly Wilshire with Pia Zadora – a true story Read/Post Comments (1) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top