Round the Bend

    Morning dawned bright and clear as the sunlight drifted across the comforter into my eyes. I thought about rolling over but was curious about morning life at Tom's parents' house.
    "There's no time like the present," bounced off the walls before I realized that I'd spoken. I threw the covers back and ran my fingers through my hair. The glimpse through the mirror was that of an unruly lioness attached to my scalp as I walked by.
    I'm a creature of habit, and even in new surroundings, the habitual must be observed. I flipped on the shower and stripped out of my pajamas without looking in the bathroom mirror. Easing into the water before it reached a comfortable temperature; I let out a tiny squeal under the cold water. I stood frozen until the water warmed and tipped back my head under the stream.
    As the water flowed over my face, a wave of thoughts flooded my head. Two months ago a dark-haired man opened the door for me at the Writer's Conference downtown. He introduced himself as Thomas Cooley as he told me he only came to these "infernal gatherings" because of the pleasant people he met and because his publisher insisted he go.
    We each took three workshops and two lectures that day and compared notes every chance we could. I started the day with character development and wrote about what Tom's background might be. His charcoal grey eyes imprinted on my brain helped me design the fictional pages of his past.
    Each workshop and lecture afforded me the pleasure of a walk through the hotel lobby where I was sure to catch a glimpse of him scurrying through, looking at his watch. I wasn't really buying the whole "publisher made me go" scenario, but he did look cute when he tried to act nonchalant.
    We met up at the Settings and Locations lecture and compare notes on deadlines and annoying assignments, but never once discussed where a story takes place. We wrote our conversation to avoid disturbing the other patrons, and someday I'm sure I'll use that dialogue in a book.
    Material for a book doesn't come easy. I have notebooks full of plots and characters and dialogue I'll probably never use, but I can't let that conversation go to waste. It was nothing special but it continued through lunch, two workshops I barely remember and dinner that night. We talked about work and my love of food and how we both came to live in a city with a lack of culture so outstanding that no writer in desperate need of a muse should ever be able to make a living.
    We laughed that both of us would probably be better writers in New York City or Atlanta or damn near any other city in the country, but quiet living seemed to make us like ourselves more.
The hot water always seems to run out before the thoughts in my head, but there are plenty more tasks in my morning ritual to let my thoughts wander. While I blow dry my hair i remember e-mail chatting.
    We didn't exchange phone numbers. We are both slaves to our writing and the mindset it imposes. I can't talk and write at the same time, but I can write and chat simultaneously. We talked about growing up and past relationships and published books; I went out and bought all of his, and he told me about his kids eventually.
    I remember our second date and our first kiss and I can't help but think about it while brushing my teeth. Tom picked me up on his motorcycle and we ate burgers up on the cliffs. I felt like I was seventeen again. We were having a blast doing nothing of importance and laughing about everything under the stars. Somehow we never ran out of things to talk about.
His kids always make me laugh. Three boys cause an Armageddon-type commotion only science-fiction novels are made of, and I will testify that Tom has enough ammunition to write an epic series.
    I've seen proud parents talk about their children before, but I've never seen a man's face light up like Tom's does when it comes to his kids. His eyes dance and sparkle, his face looks twenty years younger with a glow you can't create on purpose, and he flashes a mischievous grin like he's joining them in their scheming adventures. Even when they're in trouble, Tom's face never takes a hard edge like the kind I so often see when he's fighting for a book deal.
    Tom told me about Ben, the oldest, learning to walk. "He would pull himself up by the edge of the couch and try to walk across the room. After about five labor-intensive and wobbly steps, Ben would give a He-Man roar and rip off his diaper. Once the cumbersome diaper was off, the boy moved with lightning speed."
    I'm almost falling over laughing as I try to put on my shoes in the doorway. There's nothing so refreshing as watching him play with the boys except being drug into the fray. It makes me feel fifteen years younger.
    How did two months pass so quickly? I was your average hermit writer, although not a typical writer, until Tom and his boys invaded my daily routine like soldiers with a mission to "leave no stone unturned". Each day since my delicate life drowned in chaos floods my mind like the most gripping book I've ever read, and at times, feels as though it has passed in a single day. Yet, here I am, waking up in a double bed, alone, visiting his parents. Even in novels, this is supposed to be a nerve-wracking event, and I'm laughing like a school girl as I prepare to enter the dreaded bear's cave.
    As I descend the staircase I hear Ian, the youngest, begging for a horsey ride on grandpa's lap and riotous cheer when the request is granted. Tom's mother, Marie, greets me in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and a smile. The aroma, almond and amaretto, reminds me of the first time we took the boys sledding.
    The hill behind my apartment was a goldmine for three boys in snowsuits. They looked like alien invaders on mars as they bellowed war cries and dove head first on their brightly colored plastic snow racers. I laughed out loud as all three paths converged and the boys were overturned in a heap of white powder and plastic. Tom and I had constructed a make-shift pulley and we proceeded to haul each one up as they grasped the rope like a life boat saving them from a frigid sea.
    Once atop a hill, Ian grabbed my arm and drug me to his sled. I had only worn jeans and several tops. I wasn't sure I was ready for an onslaught of white powder to coat my extremities and drive me inside sooner than I planned.
    So, as I stood, resolved to remain standing, with Ian pulling on my arm and Ben moving the sled into position, Jake began to push on my hip in a mighty attempt to land my body in the plastic racer and speed downhill. Without warning, Tom barreled toward me from behind and toppled me into the tiny sled and we flew down the hill laughing and squealing with mere inches of plastic for us to share and his arms locked around my waist.
    After our romp in the snow and my attempt to knock the smug grin off Tom's face at the bottom of the hill, we all stomped up to the third floor of my building and into my apartment to warm up. Tom made hot cocoa for the boys and I brewed a pot of coffee.
    We huddled around the kitchen table with hot mugs in our hands and Jake shared with me his life plans as the aroma of coffee mixed with almond creamer and a splash of amaretto liquor invaded my nostrils.
    My mind is catapulted back to the present as Tom storms the living room and over takes the boys in a WWE match on the carpet. I can’t help but smile. Every minute of every day is happily absorbed with thoughts of Tom and his boys. Every incident reminds me of a day with them, even when they’re with me.
    My thoughts are caught in a ping pong match between the past and present as they remind me of good times with my own father and I tell them stories of my childhood. The funny things they do remind me of myself and my memories remind me of them. They want so much to please their father and it warms my heart as they have chosen to let me be a part of it all.
    Unfortunately, it’s not all warm fuzzies and pleasant security in my mind, even though I’d like it to be. I like Tom and he likes me, but it’s only been two months and it’s never going to be all honeymoon and no fights. We haven’t even had our first fight yet. I can see so many scenarios in my head for what it might be like, but I truly have no idea what it might be like. I have to wonder if our relationship could recover from a knock-down-drag-out fight. Are we even capable of such a forceful blow-out? We’re both passionate people, to be sure, but I think we both would much rather focus on positive passions than those of anger.
    However, regardless of what our first fight, or any succeeding fights, may be like, there are children to consider. How will it affect them? If I get in a fight with their dad, could they forgive me? These considerations, for lack of a better word, may seem over-cautious or unnecessary, but I don’t really have an expectation for what it should be like to have children. I have none of my own, and I only occasionally baby sit for my sister’s boy and two girls. Disciplining children is not an often used tool in my bag of tricks, although I’m quite experienced at the fun end of it.
    I’m not even truly sure how his kids see me. Am I a playmate? For them and their dad? Am I a potential step-mom to them? How does it all make them feel? I’m sure I’m jumping the gun and worrying about things that cannot be answered before the appointed time when they will be experienced, but I can’t help wondering.
Before Tom, I had an extremely structured life. One that I’m beginning to see was overly neurotic with little room for spontaneity or fun, but it’s what I’m used to. I like to plan and know where I’m going. And, frankly, I have no idea what is in store for any of us, even though I’ll never admit it out loud.
    Before Tom and his boys, my life was rigid. There was a place for everything and everything was in its place. Even every random thought scribbled on a piece of paper had a specific location determined by how likely I was to use the idea in writing and what genre or category it belonged to. Neurotic doesn’t even begin to describe my habitual organization and insane routines.
    As a writer, I’d been published in several magazines and had two books make to the general market, but had never had a rave review in my life. Everybody liked my work, to be sure, and I’ve yet to hear of anyone disliking it. I’m almost certain there is not a soul who hated it, but what good does it do if my work is loved? Or doesn’t change lives? Or even entertain my audience.
    Until this point, my goal has always been one of broadening my readers’ horizons because I believe there are more than two viewpoints in every situation, argument, or crossroad. As admirable as this goal may be, there is little passion in it. I became unforgivingly passionate about the details of writing and spent a large portion of my time correcting punctuation, spelling, and syntax. Trust me when I say that the most passionate person on earth about grammar and punctuation would cease to get excited about it after analysizing it so thoroughly day after day, and yet, there I sat hour after endless hour, studying, reworking, and correcting my own word usage and every other detail.
    Now, as the kitchen transformed from dining hall to the moon landing site for a few young boys, I cared little for the correctness of my former life and even the writing style I’d learn to covet. It made for a lonely life, one which I had no intention of continuing. The only obstacle which still remained was fear. Fear of the unknown.
    To some, it may appear odd for a writer, or artist of any kind, to be paralyzed by fear of the unknown. I mean, we put ourselves, our identities, and our livelihoods on the line every day. But I think the truth is that, although we subject ourselves to endless bouts of rejection, we do the thing we know. I know writing; every nook and cranny that ever existed. I write about things I know; experiences I’ve had, lies I’ve told, or stories I’ve heard (first hand, of course).
    I’ve never written a science fiction novel or created a submissive woman as a main character. These are things of which I have no knowledge. Any fiction I have written can be deemed thus only because the incidents I write did not happen in the order in which I wrote them or they have been combined with other real life events. My imagination has only ever run as far as my experiences or research have taken me.
    Now, with Tom, I watch his children create entire worlds and races in their mind.