Who knows when something good might happen?
Or something bad. In which case, you can also celebrate. Certainly did the day they canned me from Wal-Mart. Yes, I learned this trick years ago; you really can’t let fate decide what’s good or bad. You decide.
But yesterday seemed pretty clear. The book is out, the cover is right, my work is done.
“That’s two pregnancies,” said Raf, last night, after I told him it had been 18 months of labor.
So maybe that’s the reason for the listlessness, fatigue, agitation I feel. Same thing as after a big performance. So I took a long walk this morning, and listened to Corelli. (I needed something utterly formulaic, cheerful, and a little majestic…). And thought about the two pregnancies.
I’ve written elsewhere that I gave my mother her death, as she had given me life. But yesterday a good friend, Jaime, sent me a review of the book, and referred to Franny as, well…Franny.
It took me aback just for a second. And then I realized why—he didn’t know her.
And now he does.
My version, at least.
And so in some ways I’ve given her birth. And she was up to her usual tricks this morning—pointing out a ridiculous sign, wondering about the woman jogging ahead of me, noting the colors of the sea.
She trotted along beside me, making jokes, pointing things out.
Oh, and the second pregnancy?
A teacher turned into some sort of writer….
