Letters to Myself

Went to Barnes & Noble over the weekend with Ian -- not to buy anything for myself, oh no; you can get in trouble doing that so soon before the holidays -- but merely to get out of the house. I find it mildly amusing to wander through stores while so many other people are busy shopping. They're all rush rush rush as they search for a gift for their loved (or tolerated) ones, and me without an agenda.

No doubt this is another sign there's something wrong with me.

Ian's a pretty good companion for this sort of non-shopping. He's prone to invoke fits of wild babbling as we pass through clusters of folk, to which I always respond "Really? Tell me more," and if he catches someone's eye, he's prone to wave and say "bye-bye" as we cruise on past. I find myself wondering if he'll get into politics.

On the downside, he's just young enough that he has to stay in the stroller. He still sees most adult books as something to be pulled off the shelf into a colorful heap on the floor, and any children's book he gets his hands on can't be taken from him without a crowbar (or a cookie; bribery works here). So he stays seated and I have to keep strolling, constantly on the move here, not pausing in any one place for too long because that really annoys him.

One thing I did discover in a brief slowdown was that my poem "The Goblin Party," published in Flytrap last year(?) got an honorable mention in the 2007 Year's Best Fantasy & Horror. Second time I've been nominated, with both times for a poem in a venue that our own Tim edited. Clearly he is the secret to my success.