Perusing what’s new, and not, in the world of writing fills a good portion of my day. Always has. Even more so since radiation and chemo has me sidelined.
I stalk who’s writing for who, whose book finally got picked up and trends in publishing and local ad work. I’m also a sucker for watching a project go from idea to fruition. Some people collect stamps. My heart beats faster when it appears the written word will take its proper place atop the world.
I come across a writing opportunity of the variety that makes this girl squee aloud. It’s for a tv show. Unheard of in The Dale, LA remains the queen bee of television writing. It’s one of the unwritten secrets of the Universe. Kept secret even from followers of The Secret.
The heart says respond. The mind says, “Yeah, then you’ll have to meet them and speak in full adult sentences with your marble mouth, lispy s’s and garble so thick people give up saying, “Pardon me,” and just nod.
A week later, I come across the venture again. The mind reels. Do I have to be clobbered about the head? Respond, you idiot. Respond. I send an email.
I get a call the next day. We chat for a bit. More than once, but not too often, I have to repeat myself. Yes, I can meet with you. Yes, Monday sounds great. My mouth says these things without consulting my brain.
Then I sweat. How the hell do I go meet two women, who are creating a one-of-a-kind project, with partial Wonky Face and full on Wonky Mouth? I pray over the weekend for God to grant the miracle of normal speech. He does not.
Should I stuff my bra? Forty pounds down and my bras have extra growing room. I bend and tilt to see if the gap between actual boob and bra can be seen. Is it evident I’m wearing a big girl bra with little girl boobies? Can you see Gus beneath my dress? I’ve chosen a printed wrap number so below the waist is gathered and flowy—no signs of Gus. I admonish him on bad behavior and leaking in public, his latest trick. Just wait ‘til we get back in the car to do anything, I plead. He laughs. Who knew a feeding tube could affect so much more than just feeding? Asshat.
What I meet on a Monday afternoon at Starbucks are two women lighting the world on fire. I figure its best to address the speech right up front.
“I am two months out from radiation and chemo which has temporarily affected my speech so if you have difficulty understanding me, please don’t hesitate to ask me to repeat myself.”
And then the bombshell.
“What kind? I am a survivor myself and so is Karen,” says Joni. Cue Twilight Zone music.
Seems the reason I’m supposed to drag my ass out and get back into the world has deeper meaning than just writing. You never know who’s out there, ready for the meeting.