I spent the weekend surrounded by books because I can’t seem to get out of my own head. Immersing myself in another person’s problems seemed like it would be or could be a cure-all. It wasn’t. Still, I spent Saturday beneath blankets and books as the stormy weather turned the streets into lakes, the foothills into white mounds. Actual snow. In Southern California.
“It looks like Colorado out there.” I overheard a man say to the barista later that afternoon after I dragged myself out from under the covers and into a crowded coffee shop. Everyone huddled inside while the outdoor tables lay in puddles, tipped over from the wind. The man stirred sugar into his coffee with a wooden stick and made small talk about the weather. My own thoughts became louder. I searched for a table in the corner, nestled myself up against a brick wall.
I’m beginning to write my second book, and I think this is where the mind chatter is coming from. I’ve been jotting down ideas…
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