Reflections on the Fifth Week of Winter

The flames of romance kept me warm. Years ago, Spence had given me the beginning sentence for a story: “Meet me at Dairy Isle at 10 p.m.” The resulting romance, with reluctant-to-trust Jolene, weird yet endearing Matt, and a turkey chasing black lab, had gone through five versions before needing to lose six pages for the Pennwriters' competition. Wincing, I cut cherished phrases. Spence added logs to the wood stove. By Wednesday, the story was ten pages exactly, but did it still make sense? I'd ask the 6:30 to 10:00 p.m. Thursday writing group. Since Spence didn't want me driving to Erie alone at night, he packed his computer, earphones, and papers to go with me. Sitting across Tim Horton's with earphones blasting jazz, he still heard the leader's loud voice and the store's sappy muzak. On the way home, Spence asked if the group had helped. The writers had. They encouraged (tight story with great sensory details) and advised (change “forkful of chili” and fix point of view switch at “behind her”). Spence said, “You looked like a real grownup in the group–not like the cute girl you are at home.” He'll always be my sweetie.