It's Thursday night in this little small town. After a hot day of sitting on my porch reading Harry Potter, I am inside, enjoying the air conditioning and cooking supper. I decided to make a chicken casserole as I needed another comfort food. I've also made up a wooden bowl of biscuit dough and will roll out the biscuits and put them into a 500 degree oven shortly. It is going to be a heavenly dinner.
My neighbor, Joyce, came by this afternoon. She had cooked a red velvet cake and brought me two slices.
"Don't think you have to bring me back something in return," she said. "I just thought you would enjoy some cake."
My diet was once going so well, but with my recent zest for cooking and generous neighbors, it is going to hell.
"Have you been writing today?" Joyce then asked.
"I finished chapter one of my memoirs," I replied. "It is slow going, though, as my memories are fuzzy."
"I can't believe you make money off that Internet," she said of my journaling efforts.
"I've only made $2.68 cents today," I replied as I laughed.
I am definitely not getting rich, but it has afforded me a new pair of glasses this month.
As I told Joyce, the memoirs are going slow. My childhood was a macabre tale of depression and I am trying to center around the good memories. I want to concentrate on my vacations at summer camp. A time of coming of age for me. I am having trouble with finding my voice though. I want to capture the innocence of my twelve year old self and my adult voice keeps sneaking into my writings. A much wiser and learned voice that completely throws my tales out of kilter.
Well, let me go get those biscuits in the oven.