My No. 1 Fancy Tickler

I’m back! Not that I’ve been away, I just didn’t have any book news about which to write: sales for June and July have been slow. But a couple weeks ago I met a fellow author, Alan Baxter, on an online book marketing forum, I read his blog and realized that every blog entry I write doesn’t have to be about My Lost Summer. Maybe 30% of his entries concern his novel, RealmShift, but the rest is about heavy stuff like religion and politics or lighter fare like commentary on the ridiculousness of posting recreational prohibitions in a public park or the “completely empty rhetoric” of messages on church marquees in his town.
So since the lack of book sales is not motivating me to write and I miss writing, I’ll write about whatever tickles my fancy.

What’s got me giggling this weekend? Well, my husband is usually tops, and this morning is no exception. Around 10 a.m. this morning we combined errands and stopped at the library to return some books on our way to the bank to deposit some checks. Sure, two people are not required for those simple tasks, but we do enjoy each other’s company.

By 10 a.m. on Saturday, our neighborhood is bustling, and as we approached our pass of one woman holding the hand of a toddler as they were walking into a store, I exclaimed, “What a butt!” The woman wore Capri pants of linen, the fabric not thick enough to disguise each dimple and bump of her gargantuan hump.

It was something monumental, unlike anything I’d seen before, which is why I commented: I didn’t want my husband to miss the opportunity to see; something that colossal is a rarity.

What made me laugh was his analogous observance. After we passed and he had a couple seconds to think about it, he said, “Reminds you of a couple bags of dirty laundry, doesn’t it?”

As a writer, I had to take advantage of that perfect observation. English professors have always instructed budding writers to let their words paint a picture, and a butt like two bags of dirty laundry is as clear as it gets.

My husband, alas, has no desire to write, however, he frequently impresses me with his analogies. I have always admired people who think in analogies, as it's a trait--or skill--that alludes me. And I'll always wonder if my head injury (ah, coming back to the book) prevents me from being able to think that way. As I write in the epilogue of My Lost Summer, "Those of us who suffered our injuries early in life will never know the difference between what we could have been without the Traumatic Brain Injury and what we've become." Are those pathways in my brain gone, destroyed on impact? Or were they never there to begin with? I'll never know. I finish the paragraph in the epilogue with "...years ago I accepted that I'll never know what could have been, and, overall, I'm satisfied with what I've become."

Sure, I'd like to think in analogies, but until I can train my brain, I'll have to use what my husband shares. He doesn't mind. He's a sweet, selfless guy.