It's 1:00 p.m. on a Wednesday and my friend and fellow writer, Maggie Dove and I are sitting in our favorite Cuban dive, waiting for our plate of 'vaca frita' (fried cow literally) to arrive. The place smells of garlic, onions and grease. We are in heaven!
Our favorite booth was occupied today, and so was our usual waitress, the one who knows we like two side orders of chopped raw onions with parsley. We definitely didn't want the server with the 'whadda ya want' attitude, whose hair is heavily lacquered and whose tight polyester pants are three sizes too small, but today is not our day.
While we wait for our order to arrive, we get down to the real purpose of our lunch--to talk about our works in progress. Do we care about anything else? Sometimes I wonder! Other times I think not. Ever since we started writing, that's all that seems to consume our time. It's as if we've cast aside our husbands, children, friends, and social life for our make-believe world. Is this a prelude to madness? Or is it what's keping us sane?
Who's to say? In today's world of economic crisis and unemployment, what's so bad about a cozy Victorian drawing room or a Carson City saloon?