I had a weird experience last night at a young writers club I lead.
I ran into someone, someone from that horrible first year in Canada, someone I would have happily gone my whole life without ever seeing again.
The evening didn’t start well. It’s book sale week at my favorite library.
I hate book sale week because it displaces the group from our customary spot, and nobody seems to consider in advance where to put us instead. So I show up to cause panic in the girls at the counter because our space and our tables are covered with books for sale, and both the program and meeting rooms have been rented out.
Mind you — I love that book sale week helps my favorite library raise extra funds. I just hate showing up to learn that I have fifteen rowdy girls in grades four and five — and no place to take them.