This drippy, gray morning – compliments of Hurricane Ike most likely – I walked right past the obvious. A spider spun sparkling web last night right outside the kitchen door. I passed it twice before noticing it.
I missed the obvious at least once yesterday, too. I emailed our book proposal to my agent and got a nice note back from him. But he had a question: the attachment was titled “Slick Creek Proposal,” but the book title was “What They Cannot See: A Gina Lindsey Mystery.” So where, he wondered, did Slick Creek fit in?
I could have kicked myself. When Ginger and I started writing the book, we called it “Slick Creek” because that’s the town closest to the action. When we settled on the title “What They Cannot See” for the time being, (since “Murder at Slick Creek” sounded a little to Nancy Drew) I never changed the document name. And when it was time to send it to my agent, I ignored the obvious confusion the two different titles would cause for someone unfamiliar with the book.
How often does this sort of thing happen? Too often. I’d like to change that. For a few days the spider web will remind me to stop ignoring the obvious and pay attention to reality. But eventually, the web will disappear and the veneer of routine and habit will blind me again.
I don’t want to slip back into blindness. I don’t want to stumble around and make insensitive mistakes. I don’t want to look past the beauty of the obvious and ordinary. I don’t want to discount the perspectives of other people. I don’t want to forget how to live.
