“There! That’s the last box!” I said as I set down a box labeled, “books.”
Now, to relax!
I sank into my overstuffed love seat and gazed out the window at my new street. 456 Writer’s Block. It has a nice ring to it. It’s a better name than my last street, 987 Writer’s Lane… I wonder what my neighbors are like.
Wow. Neighbors must be friendly! I jumped up and walked over to my front door and eagerly opened the door. I was greeted with an overenthusiastic…
“Hi! I’m Kathleen MacDona…”
Kathleen stopped mid sentence, turned and walked away. Muttering about how this was a waste of her time. She even took the tuna casserole she baked for me.
That was strange. Maybe she has…problems.
Over the next few days I observed the lives of the peculiar people who lived on Writer’s Block. I came to the conclusion that no one worked. The exception was Greg Palmer, the neighbor in the bright blue home who devoted himself to working in his yard, fixing other’s homes and working on his car. I approached him to see if I could get his phone number to add to my neighborhood phone list. He took one look at the paper and pencil in my hand, screamed, “No time for writing!” and took off running. He started yelling about how he needed to fix his car’s radiator. Then there was John, my crazy neighbor, who greeted me yesterday morning by throwing a computer monitor out his front door.
It landed a few feet from my head.
“I hate staring at a blank screen.” Was his response.
Yet, I was determined to make friends.
My conclusion? Have a neighborhood B.B.Q. of course!
I should’ve known what a disaster that idea would be.
Saturday came and six o’clock rolled around. The party began.
Yep. He was the only one. This was the jist of our conversation over the next FIVE hours.
“So, you moved in. What do you think of the color green? Do you like it? I do. I think…”
I had never been more bored in my life. He gave me a two hour lecture on how to properly plunge a toilet.
Lisa, my neighbor from across the street, said that Saturday wasn’t “good for her.” Kathleen said she’d be there with bells on. Then phoned me three minutes later saying she didn’t want to go.
John couldn’t come because his parents had staged an intervention for him. The neighborhood had been filled with blood curling screams of, “It’s blank. The screen’s blank!” John left shortly after that.
The excuses came piling in, “Too busy. I don’t have anything to wear. What about next week?”
When Greg finally left, I had a revelation.
I needed to move.
And I did. As it turned out, my house on Writer’s Lane was still vacant.
I love it. It is just what I was thinking and have been writing about since God called me to write. The writing down of my excuses sometimes helps to shake of the nonsense of them.
This was wonderful writing. Thank you.