Yesterday I made Richard stop at the Farmers' Market while on our way to move my office things back into place for the school year. Little did I know it was to be a magic morning.
First, I should point out that I was wearing my writers' shirt as I so often do -- a t-shirt that says "I'm getting dangerously close to killing you off in my next novel". That got attention from one woman in her thirties who self-publishes romance novels, a woman my age who dabbled in writing, and a young woman who writes for herself. So we stood around and talked about our experiences in writing, in what it means to be a writer, in dreams and realities.
Not the sort of conversation I expected in Maryville. Which is why it never happened before.
Later, as I walked around the ring of merchants, a little girl on her mother's lap looked straight at me and said, "That bird over there is singing to you."
I need no greater magic than this.
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