While I’m reading, a sentence will grab me and force me to stop. I pay tribute to other authors by sharing their Damn Fine Sentences with you. Then I recount a memory the words bring up for me. It’s about how books connect with your life.
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"The full moon looked less like a jewel than a yellowy blister in need of lancing."

——Leigh Bardugo

—--Six of Crows

I make my turn a block before GPS instructs me to. “Recalculating, “ the voice says. I turn into a parking lot instead of onto a street. “Recalculating,” she says. I turn left after she instructs me to turn right. “Recalculating,” she says. I love the voice. She'll always stay right with me. I’ll never be left stranded by myself. I can’t make a wrong turn. I can never get lost.


My husband turns right a block before GPS instructs him to. “Recalculating,” she says. “Be quiet,” he says. He mutes the voice. “I hate that voice. She’s always criticizing me. I can never get it right.”

I interrupted my morning writing routine when a pop-up ad drew my attention away from Dictionary.com.
Hemingwrite.

Clever name. What’s that about? A click opened an article describing an invention for writers that was being funded on Kickstarter. A word-processor without an internet browser, it looked like a flattened-out typewriter with a postcard-sized screen. What a godsend for people like me, easily seduced by online curiosities, tempted to peek at Facebook or open one more email. This might work. Just sit and type while it backs up my work to the cloud, and that’s good, because … well let’s see how much it costs.

The cursor blinked over the link to the Kickstarter campaign. I studied the donation levels, weighed my options, read the backstory of the invention.

I was well into stalking the people who’d already donated, when a cartoon lightning bolt zapped my head.
My eyeballs sproinged from their sockets.

A singed dreadlock plopped onto the keyboard.

Sigh.

Here I sit, consumed by a website about a device designed to prevent me from being consumed by websites.

Once again stuck on its treadmill, my frantic mind races toward solutions to problems it’s busy creating.
It’s not my job to find a solution to the problem of my distraction. My job is to notice I’m distracted and then observe how that feels. Nothing more.

Life works out. It always has. The details are above my pay grade.

While I’m reading, a sentence will grab me and force me to stop. I pay tribute to other authors by sharing their Damn Fine Sentences with you. Then I recount a memory the words bring up for me. It’s about how books connect with your life.
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“There is no story that is not true.”
———Chinua Achebe

--——Things Fall Apart

I moan to the nurse that my prescription has skyrocketed to $600.00. “Can you believe it,” I say. “Sixty dollars a pill.”

“Oh no, you’re in the stupid donut hole. Try the manufacturer’s website for a discount coupon.” I’d vaguely heard about the donut hole. Now it’s my life. On my way out the door, she hands me six free samples.

I navigate the website until my eyes cross, only to discover the manufacturer won’t provide its discount to Medicare clients. I’d vaguely heard about the Sophie’s choice of medicine versus food. Now it’s my life.

I dip into my retirement account to cover the cost.

The pharmacy cashier says, “Oh dear, do you realize this is 600.00? You can get a discount coupon from their website.”

I shake my head. “Not if you’re on Medicare.”

A fleeting expression crosses her face, which I interpret as total disgust with the system. When I get home, I discover six free samples stuffed into the bag with my prescription.

My story is: The system’s so unjust, I’m infuriated.
My story is: People are so kind, I’m delighted.