Five years ago—and not coincidentally, two years after California legalized recreational marijuana—I accepted an invitation from a Christian friend to attend her son’s baptism and took my younger son with me. Last summer, my younger son decided to get baptized after attending a church camp. I decided if he’s going to do it, I would too.
Interest in UFOs waxes and wanes like moon phases, and it’s waxing again—a bright, ginormous, greenish-grayish alien moon appearing next to our usual boring one and causing strong tides of interest, diverting our attention from more important news—the Bud Light boycott, all-ages drag shows, Trump’s indictment, Biden’s trips and falls… Frankly, I find the UFO gossip a welcome distraction.
I can’t let myself overthink it. I can’t worry about whether the prose is any good, at least until I finish my draft. It’s always the same. The beginning coalesces, hardens into concrete, while the middle is mush and the end none existent. The worst that can happen is I don’t finish it. I have to keep reminding myself to stop worrying about the quality of the prose and just get it down. All of it.
I’m sitting at my writing desk with my coffee and a couple of “Coppengrath Gewürz Spekulatins” spiced biscuits (cookies) from a package my German mother-in-law gave to my kid. Yes, I am eating his cookies. There are plenty in the bag. He doesn’t need all those cookies. He won’t miss a few.
