I sat in the library this afternoon—again—trying to dig down into the meat of a story I’ve had brewing in my head for almost a year. It’s fought hard against letting me pull it out and put it onto paper, but I think I’m winning. At the very least I got a good start on it and I know where I want it to go, and where I want it to end. That doesn’t mean it will go where I will it to or end the way I hope, but it’s a start. And stories all have to start somewhere.

As I sat there, wondering if what I had just written was on the spot or a bit too wooden, I spotted a little boy standing next to his father, who was looking something up on the computer. He had his finger in his nose, and when he pulled it out, he seemed genuinely surprised at what came out when he finally unplugged his left nostril.

He held his hand up towards his father, finger pointed almost accusingly. “Daddy!”

Daddy peered down, and with a smirk that said I dare you, he snickered, “Eat it!”

The little guy looked at his father, then at his finger, then back at his father as he said brightly “You eat it!”

Dad was saved from having to respond by an older lady at the table next to me, who interrupted the exchange with a horrified “Oh, I have a tissue!” as she dug into her purse.

I kind of wanted to see what Dad was going to do.

But dang, I love the library…

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