on living the life of a swordsman

I was walking down Yonge Street. Went to Mel Lastman Square to check out how Connie actually feels to sit there. My description is quite accurate.

At the talk today, I was lining up to ask the author a question. A girl was in line ahead of me. She told me to go ahead because she had a whole list of questions written on a paper that she wanted to ask and cross them off. She looked very young. Maybe grade ten or so. I asked her, “Are you working on something?” She said a weak ‘yeah’ and sort of nodded, and I didn’t ask further. I should have said, “May I ask what you’re working on?” That would have sounded less intrusive, I suppose. And I suppose writing is a bit different from other arts. I don’t know why, but it’s hard to actually tell people what you’re working on. Now, as I look back at my own thus-far not-yet-published writing career, I have come a long way because I can now actually tell people, “I’m working on a collection of sixteen stories…” and I can say this fluently now probably because I’m actually writing. It’s easier to say you do something when you actually do it! I hope this girl is writing and that she isn’t just thinking about it. She’ll come out of it. I just hope that for her. Not sure why.

Then I walked up Yonge Street, all the way to Finch Station, passing by balconies on condos that I might never afford to buy. But so what.