I wrote for about an hour, and then a group of men began moving tables and chairs around in the small conference room next to me in preparation for some meeting. I’ve been watching the excellent new show, Elementary, about a modern day Sherlock Holmes and his assistant Watson, and the show is so compelling that you begin to think like a detective. I tried my powers of deduction. There were about 30 people of various ages cramped into a small room, all men, some of them dressed well, others casually. They were friendly with each other, but their purpose was to generate business, it seemed. They consulted white legal pads. The sign outside their room said it was reserved for DNA, which, other than the usual thing that comes to mind, I’d never heard of. I’m thinking maybe they were salesmen, but why no women? Or insurance guys? Or an investment club? I have no idea. I did get some writing done, but I feel like a failure as a detective. I’m better at making things up, I guess.
I wrote a good portion of my first novel at the St. Louis Bread Company, which became the Panera’s in our neighborhood. So off I went this morning to recreate old times. As I left, my wife said maybe I can join a group of senior citizens. Sure enough, within a minute of being there, this one guy starts talking to me as I’m filling my coffee cup, and if I’d sat next to him, we’d be best friends right now. But I was there to write.
I wrote for about an hour, and then a group of men began moving tables and chairs around in the small conference room next to me in preparation for some meeting. I’ve been watching the excellent new show, Elementary, about a modern day Sherlock Holmes and his assistant Watson, and the show is so compelling that you begin to think like a detective. I tried my powers of deduction. There were about 30 people of various ages cramped into a small room, all men, some of them dressed well, others casually. They were friendly with each other, but their purpose was to generate business, it seemed. They consulted white legal pads. The sign outside their room said it was reserved for DNA, which, other than the usual thing that comes to mind, I’d never heard of. I’m thinking maybe they were salesmen, but why no women? Or insurance guys? Or an investment club? I have no idea. I did get some writing done, but I feel like a failure as a detective. I’m better at making things up, I guess.
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November 2019
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