Three Titles

My daughter and I went to the bookstore today. I had a gift card and an itch to spend it. I told her to pick out whatever she wanted. I also picked out whatever I wanted. It's great to do that every now and then, to go out and pick out whatever you want and bring it home.. 

I came across two titles I've been wanting to buy, one by a woman whose Ted Talk is my absolute favorite - about joy. The other is new. Something I heard of this year, not sure where, but it's right up my alley. Rooted: Life at the Crossroads of Science, Nature, and Spirit. Yes, that's me.

The third book is a surprise. An author of short stories recommended by a colleague in my writing community. Actually, recommended by several. I'm not very in touch with the latest in publishing, it seems. I'd never read her before. I fell in love with short stories after reading Night Shift by Stephen King. I can't read him anymore because I can't have his genius in my head, but his short stories still thrill long after I've packed his books away. The other short story collection I love is Sugar In My Bowl, an anthology by women writers about women's relationship with Eros. 

I've been writing short stories since I was a young writer. I gave up in my early 20s, figuring I'd come back to it when I had more life experience. My characters were flat. I've come back to it in the last 20 years. Off and on. 

I write short stories because I am a sprinter and not a long distance runner. Not sure there is a novel in me. There might be, but it would have a hard time getting out.

My eye rested on a slight volume, Susan Minot's Why I Don't Write and Other Stories. After a moment, during which I recognized her name, I picked up the book. The title draws me. As does the idea of reading an author that colleagues compare my short story writing to. It's always interesting (to me) to see myself reflected through another's lens.

I have another day with my daughter. I drop her at her brother's tomorrow evening and they'll spend a couple of days together before she flies back to Chicago. I'm grateful for this time, but I'd like to tuck her away and keep her all to myself. The time feels short. 

Of course, I'm not really thinking about that. And I am. When I can corral myself, I think about how fortunate we are to have this time and how wonderful she is. How at 33, she's as magical to me as she was the first time I held her. 

A Hundred Days of Happiness is a daily writing practice that opens a landscape into my own human experience. 

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.