Anticipation

There really is no adequate way to describe the anticipation one feels when a book you authored is ready for publication. The first time have it in your hands makes all the work worth it.
Work? Why should we think of writing as work? My old Post office job was work--this is challenge. One interesting aspect is the source of compliments, as well as indifference.
People I hardly know seem to enjoy the writing much more than I expected, whereas those I've known better and longer too often seem blase, indifferent to the books. You never know who will and won't buy your book. After Twilight People I tried to balance my disappointment with some ignoring it with the pleasant surprise connected with strangers reactions.
Right now it is drizzling out and concerts have been cancelled. I saw a free movie, Mildred Pierce, at the library. I can take a nap or go to the gym or start a new short story. I'm tired of watching gymnasts do the same routine. Maybe I'll write about a rebellious gymnast who defies her coach and creates her own moves.

Bike Boy

I'm walking in the park, getting my exercise, and this little kid riding along with training wheels suddenly loses control and falls off his bike right into the grass. I'm reading my book, minding my own business. Sighing, I straighten the kid's bike and look down at him. He's wearing his helmet, lying on his side, knees bent, in a fetal position. He is not whimpering, eyes are open. just lying there contemplating the insanity of bikes, learning at an early age about responsibilities. He is a kid. Kids ride bikes. No one questions this chain of events, certainly not the boy.
I should have asked him if he was okay. Maybe I did. But I distinctly remember inquiring if he was going to get up. He hesitated, as though thinking it over. What's the point, he may be thinking. He does get up and climbs back on the bike. Is too embarrassed to thank me. I continue my walk. A few seconds later he loses control again, practically runs into me, manages to regain his balance, looking at me sheepishly. Go slow is all I can offer. Go slow.
He starts pedaling again and soon is far off in the distance. I keep circling the path with my book, but I never see him again.
Part of me admires the kid for his persistence in the face of this absurd task. Another part feels sorry for him because he will discover no matter how many times he falls he will be expected to rise and start over.One day, after he's retired, he may just have to dodge some fool kid on a bike, going sideways when he should be going straight.