The time has dawned upon us when we reach out to one another, desperately grappling to grab the lifeline offered by an individual who feels such as we. Shall I say it out loud? Insecure. Hence our writer’s group.
The build up is always so much better. Laughing out Loud, felt like writing the whole thing out there. It is quite possible I spend too much time alone in my cute little office-like roomy-thing.
So mid-week is here and a tough one for my favorite friend. I love her our little Sandi of American Writer’s Exposed. And today I wish to bring her a smile, through the expense of my abhorrent ridiculousness.
Fourth of July always brings with it a tremendous amount of traffic to the coastal villa where we both live. I am talking about gridlock in an unsuspecting town of two thousand full-time residents, okay there is eight thousand, but we behave like two. Traveling the full-length from the north-end of the city to the south is already a pain in the derriere not to mention when added vehicles crowd her highway. This tarmac panics, freezing under the pressure.
We are talking total shut down. Local yolk-hols usually stay home if they can help it, so traveling can be hashed out by the visiting populace. We watch our fireworks on the nightly news or over the beautiful lake not many visitors know about yet. But there are some who live right next to the bay where all three million congregate.
The things I think about as I am stuck in traffic are probably more similar to my writer peeps. In my mind, I finish dangling chapters, work on new scenes, fall in love with new characters, talk it all out loud. No one has to be in the car. Easily I can be swayed into new book hooks and future projects to work on.
There is one thing that baffles me while I try to sound out the vanity plate ahead of me, another past-time in which I more often than not fail…if it can’t be spelled or rolls off one’s tongue it makes no sense. Not to the other half-trillion of us behind you.
Bikers. They baffle me. This breed has no rules when it comes to the road. They are a mysterious conundrum all black leather and bad, leaning back on their chaise lounges skirting between cars while trimming their toenails. These outlaws sport ponytails or pleasure cabs and have a secret code that us drivers lack.
The two fingered flag pointed in a perfected angle toward the ground. Yes, there is proper waving etiquette. Why is it when they pass each other heading down the opposite six lanes do they get to wave? And not the one with a middle finger, like us? It matters not what type of bike they sit astride.
I think the gang must laugh at us in our sweltering vans, three car seats stuffed in the back while running out of gas. Ahh…to be a biker and not the one with the four-foot flag.
But comradery…that is a grand thought.
So my writing community what do you think? How can we distinguish each other in the middle of gridlock?
TO BE CONTINUED…
Write On! ❤ Jessica
Psst…I am waiting. I’m serious here people what can our driver type thing be?