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Something understood

"No no" said the Editor, sweeping the sheaves of paper from her desk in what would have been an impressive arc, had one sheet not blown backwards and obscured the picture of herself and her husband rock-climbing somewhere sunny. "School shootings? Don't bring me this. What would you know about school shootings?"

I watched the other sheets settle around the room like crap snow. She was, of course, right; I knew nothing about school shootings. But what I'd actually written was a poignant short story about  regretting the way it had ended with my childhood sweetheart. I didn't recall any shootings.

That said, she was right in a broader sense. Exploiting long lost loves to try and mine a bit of creative spark is a bit creepy, obviously. I felt obscurely pleased at her decision not to publish, and wondered why I'd brought the story in in the first place. For that matter, I wondered why I'd written it. Then I worried that I was going to be late to pick the eldest up from cricket practice. Then I worried that I hadn't yet done the shopping for dinner. Then I worried about the fact that my knee still hurt, for some reason.

"Bring me something about anti-semitism" she said "then we'll talk". My heart sank. I didn't know where to start with that one, either.

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