I can’t remember if I turned the stove off this morning after making breakfast. I’m pretty sure I did. I almost remember turning it off, but that vivid, clear, distinct memory of turning the knob and hearing that satisfying little snap that tells me the burner’s off isn’t there. I am now going to have to drive the 40 miles home just to double-check because I’m not completely sure, and my paranoid imagination is off and running with one horrible possibility after another.
Of course, I can argue the finer points of the book I finished last night, including details of the scenes that made me want to slap the heroine for being such a wuss, the nuances of the dialogue, and the one unnecessary plot point that made me want to throw the book across the room in frustration. I can also tell you the moments that made me want to keep reading in more detail than they probably warrant.
And, like all writers, I can go on for hours about any and all of my stories, written or unwritten, including characters’ back stories, emotional turning points, setting, underlying themes, symbols, inspirations, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
I just can’t remember whether or not I turned the damn burner off.
October 24, 2009 at 10:45 pm
Well, did you?