I have written about mingling desire with expectation. Not a good combination. Expectations loom large, they block out the sun.
Still, expectations leach into my desires everyday, sometimes via very ordinary interactions. Even people’s simple hopes turn into expectations.
Just this week, as I was picking up dry cleaning, the topic of my novel arose. My dry cleaner knows I had a stroke less than a year ago. She knows I was writing a novel. She does not know how long it takes to write a novel. She is also excited that I’m writing a novel. So she asked, “How is your novel? Is it published yet?”
“No,” I said, immediately regretting my casual mention of writing a novel last year.
“How come?” She asked it simply. Yes, I said silently to myself–how come it isn’t written yet?
“It takes a long time to write one, and sometimes even longer to get it published.” I gulped.
She hung the sweaters, wrapped in plastic on the pick-up pole. “Well let me know. My husband and I, we will buy it!”