Anna, Lori, Melissa, and I met at noon at Fogata’s Street Tacos for book club. Since I’d chosen The Godfather, I also got to pick the restaurant. After ordering a fajita bowl and chomping on chips and salsa, we talked shop—what we thought, favorite parts, that sort of jazz. Our biggest takeaway was learning about Sicilian machismo culture. Then we drifted into talking about other books we’re reading, and Ernest Hemingway came up. I learned about his womanizing behaviors and how he manipulated F. Scott Fitzgerald to get him fame—which he did—but then abandoned him once he’d made it. The women shared what they’d read from different perspectives: one had read a historical fiction novel from the point of view of Fitzgerald’s wife, Zelda, and another from Hemingway’s girlfriend while they were in Paris. Having nothing to add, I sat back and listened as they layered details and ideas.
After, I made a stop. Standing in line at the Habitat for Humanity ReStore, an elderly woman, with three people still ahead of her in line before checking out, unloaded her few items and then pushed her empty cart toward me. I was juggling two oversized square pillows, a rolled-up 5×7 rug, and a long lumbar pillow tucked awkwardly in my arms. She didn’t hesitate — she just handed it over.
I didn’t win the writing contest, but I did read the winning entry. The story — connecting the main character’s rabbit hunting to themes of immigration — was beautifully written. The imagery was vivid, the message layered and strong. It was well deserved.
Still, I’ve been a little in my head about my own writing since then. Maybe I should read a book or take a course on storytelling — something I’ve never actually done.
All that talk about reading has given me a hankering. I’d better scooch if I’m going to, it’s getting late.
Thanks for being here! Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 