Yesterday I was driving home from Trader Joe’s, my mind deep in my novel. I am SO close to finishing it I can see the end and I was excited about what I was seeing. Then a street sign yanked me from my thoughts: I was crossing Roscoe, but Roscoe didn’t look like Roscoe. My breath came a little fast. Why is the world weird? I wondered, passing the street I usually take to cut over to my house, but because that street didn’t look like itself either, I refused to turn. My worry accelerated to panic. I’m a mother! I thought. I don’t have time for a brain tumor! Luckily, the main thoroughfare appeared. I turned down it and my little pocket of suburbia promptly normalized. Figuring it out only took a few seconds: I’d simply turned down the street prior to the street I normally turn down, but my brain, rummaging through my novel, obsessing on certain ends, sent no confirmation of this move. If I hadn’t seen the Roscoe sign, perhaps I’d still be driving.

Regardless–I’ve got my ending.

Yours in dire conclusions,

PB