It's like Friday for me because it's the last day I work this week. Most weeks, actually. I finished your critique this morning, Bob, and I printed out my submission the other night so I'm ready for our meeting tonight. Now I just need to find some breakfast, get dressed, find a book to read, and I'll be ready to go off and keep the world safe from scuba diving.
I like your scribble, Bob. Nice fishing image, you reel the reader right into the mystery that is Bennie.
July 23--Write about being late--Fran paced. Up and back. Up and back. As he paced he smoked one cigarette every half hour. He was trying to quit and had set up a rationing system. When he spent the day in the office he barely smoked all day. Company rules wouldn't let him smoke in his office and he'd be damned if he'd stand out front under the awning with the rest of the smokers. He always felt embarrassed for them when he drove buy a building with that motley huddle of addicts clustered near the ashtray, linked only by their common addiction. He hated it, hated that feeling of need, the nearly unbearable tug of nicotine, not to mention the habit of having that burning tube between his fingers, the graceful lift to his lips and the ecstatic feeling of that first inhalation, the rush of the drug along his veins. Ah, it was irresistible. He ground out the butt he had dropped at the same time he lipped another out of the pack. Damn that Rogers. Damn him. How dare he be late and force Fran to smoke and pace? Well, no more Mr. Nice Guy for old Rogers. Even if he repays the loan and all the vig, he's going down, and not quick and easy either. Fran adjusted his shoulder holster while lighting up.
That's it. See you tonight.
--Barbara
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