DON'T FORGET TO WRITE

I think I've mentioned my love for books, right? Or as my husband would probably call it, "a problem". On days when the towers of books beside by bed are toppling over into toddler-tripping floor ruble, I might actually agree with him.

Just this past Saturday, Luke wanted to get out of the house. We got the boys ready and hopped into the car, he asks me where I want to go. Hmm ... I don't know ... used bookstore? His response, "So we can add to the stacks of books in our bedroom? And maybe start barricading ourselves in our house with books?" Well, no that's not exactly what I had planned. But now that you've mentioned it.

We ended up going to the Saturday flea market. And wouldn't you know, I found myself a book. Luke just smiled and shook his head. Hey, you can keep the girl from the used bookstore, but you can't keep the used books from the girl. I just find them. Or they find me.

In this case, I think the book was waiting for me. I mean seriously, it was a match made in flea market heaven. In a large building full of tables and tables of flea market doodads and vendors I see this one table with books sprawled across it, all different sizes and styles. Then I notice a simple piece of paper folded to stand up like a roof that states "books on this table $1". I get slightly excited just reading the sign. What cheaply priced treasures! Then I spot this book. Is it talking to me? I look from side to side, point at myself ... me? I mean, I have been wanting to write more often, and the reminder would be nice, and I do really like simple kitschy sketches, and I ... and I ... and I ... (flipping book over) ... author lives in Paris, writes for New York Herald Tribune as French contributor ... ooh la la, my dream. A writer living in Paris? I couldn't get that dollar out of my purse fast enough.

What's the point of this story? I have no idea. But I am writing.