Thursday, February 16, 2006

Bum Glue

Nick works nights.  It’s not something I’m in favor of, but he’s just not a morning person.  Someday I’ll describe the morning routine that gets him out of bed.  For now, let’s just say, it’s not pretty.  Thankfully for him, Southwest has an afternoon shift, which he gratefully signs up for.  

I’m a morning person myself.  With my early start, I’m usually dead by 9pm.  If I am awake, it’s more of a zombie-like wandering around with mere slits for eyes, my arms outstretched searching for invisible structures or obstacles.  

Despite my inability to stay up late, I spend Saturday nights at the airport with my husband.  That’s right—3:30 to midnight on Saturdays, I have my favorite little spot in the food court at Lindbergh Field (right next to the Starbucks) where I park my carcass.  I call it bum glue.  I apply it liberally to the seat of my pants, plant my fanny firmly in a large booth and stay there for eight hours.  It is the most productive eight hours of my week.

I could be home flipping channels or watching what remains of the eighteen hours of TV I watch every week, but why?  Why do that when I (and so many other writers with me) am always wishing I had more time to read and write.  I take my nifty purple bag and fill it with my weekly projects (some time, I’ll tell you about my massive to-do list—it’s color coded!).

I try to read three books a week:  a novel, a book on writing, and some type of Christian study (a novel or book written by one of my favorite Christian non-fiction writers).  Short stories, writing practice, whatever novel I’m working (next installation of the Lonely Wolf should hopefully materialize soon), and of course, my meal planning for the week.  

Bum glue keeps me in the seat.  I can do anything I want—but I can’t leave.  I’m stuck there until the last plane is home.  I have a steady supply of coffee and Diet Coke at my disposal.  In addition, Nick has an average of 20 minutes of every hour when he can come out and see me.  That’s almost three hours of quality time—time I would otherwise not have with him.  Some of our best talks come from the booth where I’ve spread my books and papers.  

It’s not an exciting Saturday evening to most people.  But I can get lost in any number of worlds created by the imaginations of some author—or sometimes my own.

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