So my wife and I are celebrating our tenth anniversary this week. We hosted a little surprise party (since getting to this milestone was surprising to many, possibly including us) Saturday, to take advantage of the single-digit weather.
I’m trying to come up with some sort of witty observation to make about the party, but I think I may have turned the observational part of my brain off and just enjoyed it. That probably makes me an inferior writer or some such. Too bad.
Evidently you have to make it to 25 years before you’re worthy of a dedicated cake-topper, though.
In other news, the Barnes and Noble who has allowed my writers’ group to meet there for some years has decided to show us the door, and not the fire exit we’re used to sitting by. As I understand it, our numbers are problematic when everyone shows up (that’s fair, they don’t have a dedicated space for 18), but the amusing part is how they alluded to our out-loud reading being an issue.
I say amusing because we’ve been scrupulous about eliding around the harsher parts of the English lexicon. No, what they object to is some of the themes people touch on while reading: you know, bad things happening to people.
Of course, if one of us were Stephen King, or Alice Sebold, or *insert bestselling author who sometimes writes about topics not brimming over with rainbows and bunnies here*, one suspects they would have a different attitude. And line tickets.
So the message is this, folks: until you’re published and preferably famous, you can’t read anything which might give the sales staff the vapors at a Barnes and Noble. At least not the one in Ladue, MO.
And I was thinking about a Nook too.