The Wayward Writer

Last night I attended a meeting of my writers’ group at Kasie’s house, which ran late, and then I stood outside talking to one of the members for a while (hi, Tricia). Unfortunately, I pulled away from the house before she did, or I could have followed her back to the main road. Instead, I made a wrong turn and wandered the community for twelve minutes. In most houses, the lights had all ready gone out for the night, and more went dark as I tried to retrace my “steps” to start over, but I never found Kasie’s house again. I cycled through: annoyance, worry, anxiety, desperation, fear—and then finally, I saw another living soul, a man working late in his garage. I asked for his help, and he gave me clear directions to be on my way home.

This morning, I’ve been thinking how I felt when every street I turned down was the wrong one. I remember feeling at one point, that I didn’t care what main street I came out onto. If only I could find one familiar street, I could find my way home from there. And then, of course, I related that to my work-in-progress. That desperation to make a connection is exactly what my protagonist Jalal feels as my story opens.

We can all relate to that. Aren’t we all lost souls looking for the way home?