The notebook is in transit. I think about its pages, and hope they stay together. The glue in the spine was starting to come unstuck. Maybe the next recipient will mend it.
I hope that he gets a moment on his own, to read our words. Maybe in a cafe, (does he drink coffee? If so I bet he drinks espresso). Or on a park bench. I don’t mind if he reads it on the subway, or at work, or anywhere, but I like the idea of him, alone with the book. I will imagine that it’s me, telling him the stories myself. He said that sometimes it is sexy to be asked. I am asking.
(Now I feel embarrassed. I do ask for things. But it takes a bit of a leap for me).
I don’t know if he reads my blog. I am starting to think he may. I assumed when he agreed to take part in the project, that it was merely because I was such an obvious fan of HIS writing. Like I assumed he responded with his ego. Now that seems kind of dumb of me. We all like to be flattered, especially writers. But I get the feeling he may have had a sense of who it was that was pestering him so. If not, then he probably won’t read this anyway, in which case my wondering is purely academic.
I’d like to be able to do more than just write. I mean. Writing’s a big deal to me. But it would be good if I had something else to give. At the moment, I’ve got nothing else. But then neither does he.