A lump in the throat of a young Japanese man coming to life in the book I'm working on.
Action: Resist temptation to Google everything there is about lumps in the throat, like causes, appearances, and symptoms.
Result: Continue writing as if it doesn't matter so much, as if what really matters is how he sits up in bed to be fed shark fin soup in a black lacquer bowl.
Thoughts on drive home from market: Is the flood water really rising again?
What the husband says: The waters are trying to tell us something. They're saying move your roads over and your houses over we're coming through, because the way you're trying to move back the rocks and boulders into the stream bed is just going to make our current run faster the next time a hurricane hits.
What our daughter says when she gets home: There's a new girl in school whose name backwards spells "heaven".
What the husband says: That's so she recognizes the sign for it when she gets there and the sign's been turned upside down.
What everyone does: Figures out what their name is spelled backwards.
What raccoon is spelled backwards: Nooccar.
What we do for about five minutes: Call the raccoon "Nooccar".
What we're watching at night: A campy sci-fi movie called The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra.
The kids favorite line from the movie: "I must make the skeleton meatier by using a crowbar covered in lettuce."
What the kids keep reciting throughout the day: "I must make the skeleton meatier by using a crowbar covered in lettuce."
What the house does at night when we are all in our beds: Creaks and moans.
What the house is probably saying: I'll get a head start on moving over to make room for the waters of the streams and the river nearby.