Parking my car takes great effort. (Don't even ask me to parallel park. I think Lisa, age 16, knew how to do things like that. I promptly forgot.)
Parking takes deliberate effort because I am scatterbrained and prone to wandering. I park, deep in thought, and shop in my stupor, getting what's on my list but really, I'm working out plot points in my novel that would so like to be.
I step out the door and come to. I have no idea where I parked, and I stumble about, my cart full of milk and bananas and graham crackers, old before my years.
I justify my dementia, as I circle the lot, trying to land. Writers can be preoccupied; it's just an occupational hazard.
And I catch a glimpse, a flash really, of Stephen King, from the corner of my eye. He shrugs, shaking his head, sitting in judgment.
I glower and under my breath: "Yes, I know thinking about writing really doesn't count." He hears me, like only Stephen can, telepathically. He remains unconvinced, but I'm convicted.
I find my car, right where I left it and go home to unpack the groceries. I find my book (I use the term loosely) right where I left it and go to work.
I always knew that guy was spooky.