The other day at the deli, I elbowed my way in and knew to take a number.
Such is not always the case, especially if the place is new to me.
I step inside, look around, try to figure out what's what, where things are, where I need to be. I'm the one with the WTF? look on her face.
And as I'm looking around, I miss obvious things, like the number machine. So much so that my live-in handyman often says, "And you write mysteries?"
But I pick up on so much more. Like at the deli.
The woman shuffling her feet. The young mother cooing to her baby. The guy hiking up his jeans.
The way items are stacked on the shelves. Displayed in the cases. The combination of items people order. The way their eyes shine thinking about the taste. I smiled at the woman who licked her lips when she ordered one-third pound of sopressata.
So I become so engrossed in these little things - especially at new places - that someone usually taps my shoulder and says, "You gotta take a number."
But I'm trying to improve.
A vibrant manuscript includes all sorts of detail, large and small.
Next time I go to the deli, or into the garage, or wherever, I'm checking out the big-ticket items first.
It's time I look to see if a wall is missing or something major instead of what color the print is on the side of the paint can in the corner.