Signposts All Around Tuesday, August 26, 2003

A long afternoon, capped by a run for the ferry that came up about five seconds short. I cussed the world, kicked the floor and read Mr. Waugh until the next boat showed fifteen minutes later. On dry land again, another drive, another loss by a nose: the light rail was pulling out just as I turned the corner. Another fifteen-minute wait.

On the train, I read some more -- Guy Crouchback is stuck in Greece! The Germans are advancing! -- and huffed up the stairs when we got to Bayonne. (A malefactor had set out a tin of peanuts that morning.) As I was crossing Avenue D, I heard a squeak behind me. My very own signpost! She'd been kept late at work, then had a class, etc. Walking home, for once, was wonderful. She was closer than Mars.

Then I logged on and discovered I didn't know how to answer the bulk of the questions put to me by the editor of Black Sails Over Freeport. A huddle with my co-authors leads me to believe I'll have to make it all up. No sweat: I'm a journalist.

Shortly after had a long talk with an old friend, the closest thing I have to a professional mentor. He listened patiently while I griped; I felt like a kid calling his parents and begging to come home from camp. He told me gently there was no easy answer, and put my complaints, which I will elide, in perspective.

And now there's today. Here's hoping.

@ 8:52:00 AM,

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