So I've been told I need to update...

So, I noticed I start a lot of my posts with "So, ..."

I was busing tables after the lunch rush at Deja the other day and friend-of-the-blog Laura was eating lunch with another lady. To make a short story even shorter, Laura introduced me to this woman who turned out to be the executive director of the local npr station. So, I'm stoked, if all goes well I'll be doing some kind of program for WDIY. I like the radio, maybe I'll be able to channel some Garrison Keillor.

Ummmm, the maps I'm missing are back ordered and they'll be getting coming in 3 to 5 weeks.

I don't think I let go of things so much as I forget about them, maybe its the same thing.

I'm suck on this story I started writing. I was pretty ambitious when I began writing so I began by writing "Chapter 1". I wanted to do a book or novella or something, something longish, but I'm stuck on the very top of page three. Let me know if you like it/ have any ideas where to go with it.


Chapter 1
Its supposed to snow tonight into tomorrow, the weatherman predicted up to twelve inches. I don’t get to play in snow enough to enjoy it anymore. I have to wake up an extra thirty minutes early to shovel, get hot and sweaty, then go to work. I walk to work and most people aren’t conscientious enough to have their walks shoveled. I don’t like snow.
My thoughts flow and I can’t figure out what to write about. Its frustrating, mainly because I’d like to be a writer. A writer of books and things, not so much news articles and other things. Maybe I should look at what sells and be a blockbuster writer like James Patterson. I’m sure its not as easy as his books make it seem.
Plot, thought, twist, dialogue, punctuation. I should think plot though, or is it character(s)? Font, wit, wisdom, mystery, romance. Coffee, definitely coffee. Then maybe a cigarette?
Coffee’s warm, it’ll keep me up. The shades are up and the light’s on, its dark outside so the windows are like mirrors. I can see the blankness on my face and faintly snow flakes falling outside. Snow’s sticking. My eyes lose track of the flakes, extra examination proves the snow is still falling.
Its late, maybe early. I don’t think the day starts until the sun rises, so its late for me. I should get sleep I have to work in the morning. Work might be closed for the snow. I don’t know. I’m a professional sandwich maker. We’re like mailmen. We work rain, snow, sleet, and shine; we work in a climate controlled building.
I’m up late and not getting anything done. I’m wasting sleep time and I like sleep. I like dreaming more. Dreams are fun, they’re most often filled with sex and violence. I don’t think that idea needs further explanation. Its still snowing.
My music library is really lopsided. Its frontloaded, over half my songs are by artists with names beginning with A or B. Its not planned. I’m not trying to conquer music one letter at a time. I have discographies from the following artists: Aesop Rock, Afroman, The Beach Boys, The Beatles, Billy Joel, Bob Dylan, Bob Marley, Bright Eyes and Busdriver. Its starting to annoy me. Maybe I have an unnatural attraction to the letter B (and less so A).
The sky’s brightening up. I’ll have a cigarette. I smoke Winstons, they like to advertise that they’re made without additives. I say they’ll give me additive-free cancer. I don’t like the smell of cigarettes so I smoke on my front porch and walk out to the street to flick the butt. There’s a little kid running down the sidewalk. Since the snow is up to his knees he isn’t really running, but he’s giving it a go. Not anymore. He fell. He’s a house and a half away and not getting up. I should’ve gone over sooner.
I get over to him; his cheeks are bright red, his nose is running, tears are in his eyes, his hands shoot up toward me. He wants to be picked up. I hoist him and plop him on my shoulders and begin to walk following his trail in the snow.
“What are you doing out here buddy? I’m going to take you home, back to mommy and daddy, ok?” Shit, what if the kid‘s from a broken family? “You know where you live?” Nothing. So he’s a mute or really cold and miserable and weirded out by this guy who came along and picked him up and is taking him in the opposite direction of where he was clearly trying to go.
Its light enough to see visibility is down to a block or two. Snow’s up to eight or ten inches and not stopping. I’m ill-equipped for this mission. My slippers are filling with snow with every step. The snow is willing to compromise with my body heat and turn to slush in my slippers. I’m pretty sure my toes are purple. I really don’t like snow. The kid’s path is filling in, “I could use some help finding your house, bud.” Maybe he’s physically capable of speech but just doesn’t know how.
There’s a battle in my head. I can go back to my place get out of the cold and call the police or child services and risk seeming to be on the pedophilia side of creepy or I can keep trying to follow a faint trail and risk losing my toes and therefore my ability to walk and therefore my ability to lead a happy fulfilling life. I’m stacking the deck for option #1.

Chapter 2
So here’s a story idea. A guy finds a little kid alone in a snowstorm. What next? He’s sleeping on the couch across the room from my table/desk. Afghans are piled high, his face is serene. I need more material.

The End (for now)

P.S. I'll allow (and this counts retroactively) the first ten different people that post a comment to write on one piece of paper "I O U $1" or "I owe you one dollar" or anything equivalent and then sign my name "Andrew Atkinson". I won't even sue you for forging my signature. I have imbued worth upon these scraps of paper. They can be traded amongst yourselves. See who can collect the most of them. They are as good as currency. Keep in mind I don't want them, I have real money.