I’ve seen people on email lists and blog sites complain because they don’t get comments on their posts. Goodness knows I’m guilty of reading blogs and not commenting. The only blog I comment on regularly is FatalFoodies, because I post there myself and want other people to comment on my posts, self-serving back-scratcher that I am.

So here I am, back in town. I’m becoming addicted to high-speed internet. If I could get my husband to start jonesing for it, too (Is that term out of style now? If people my age are using it, it probably is), we might get it at home. But then what excuse could I have to hitch up the buckboard and drive into town? I’d have to collect a raft of errands to justify it. Love the luxury of being at the library (or the coffee shop) with the sound of traffic all around and folks wandering in and out of my view. One of the many nice things about living in a small town is how often you see people you know–and usually like–anywhere you go.

Fatal Foodies is having an open mic night tonight. I’ll be accessing it on my dial-up, which disconnects itself erratically, so it’s liable to be spotty for me, at best. It used to happen when I went to chats with the Patrick Bauchau fans, and I would return and be advised to fasten myself onto the list with duct tape. Didn’t work.

Although no one reads this blog–and why should anyone read it–it’s BORING–I’m going to post a writing exercise, just in case anybody stumbles in by accident and actually reads this far:

You are sitting in the library and someone passes the window. You’re working on your laptop, which is plugged into the wall socket. The door is at the other end of the building. The person who passes is going away from the door. This is someone from your past, someone you never thought you would see again, someone you very much want or need to speak to. Who is it, what’s the backstory, what do you do?

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