I drove home this morning from a long weekend in Newnan with Marion. I had writing on my mind, but the ideas were not coming. I had plenty of windshield time to sort through the next best story. But my mind wasn’t cooperating. My brain was as blank as a 5th grade chalk board in July.

I walked through the kitchen carrying my weekend bag. I could see my laptop lying on the seat of the chair in the corner and I could hear it taunting me.

I should have written yesterday. According to the international writers’ agreement, which is part of my non-existent contract, I’m required to write on Mondays. This is the rule. All good ideas come on Mondays and Thursdays. Everyone knows this. That’s when I’m supposed to write.

Instead, on Monday I picked blueberries with Marion. We visited my granddaughter at summer camp. Came home. Took a nap. Changed the whole-house water filter in the basement. Spread some pine straw. Cleaned up some tools in the shop. Took a shower. Cooked some supper. Watched a movie. And went to bed.

My writing got pushed to the side.

This always makes Marion feel guilty. She knows that I am a creature of habit who likes to write on a set schedule. But when we have a day together like yesterday, writing is about the furthest thing from my mind. To heck with the international writers’ agreement.

She’ll often say something like, “Hanging out with me gets in the way of your writing. I mess up your schedule.”

“Hmm. I should have put that in the wedding vows.”

I’m giving her the look. I can see us facing each other for the recitation of those immortal words. The preacher is asking me the most important question of my life about whether or not I take this woman to be my wedded wife.

My response: “I DO, except for Mondays.”

So, this week I’m writing on Tuesday. I don’t think the literary world will fall apart. For sure, there won’t be any cut in pay. It’s kind of hard to cut something from nothing.

My real pay for doing this thing I call writing is you. You’re out there somewhere. I don’t know who you are. Some of you I know, but many of you I don’t. You’re from places like California, New York, and New Jersey. Even places completely foreign to me like Singapore, Taiwan, and China.

God bless you all. Forgive my terrible grammar. Forgive my restless ramblings. Forgive my pitiful attempts at humor and the endless personal sentiments which I try to pass off as insights into life. I’m barely qualified to watch paint dry, much less tell you anything about how life works.

Sometimes I slip into my southern twang when I write. I’ll say things like “shoot fire” or “Lawd have mercy” or “that boy’s biscuits ain’t done.” And when I do that, I’m sure you’re wondering if I even qualify as an authentic writer.

I had a teacher one time who tried to correct my twang. I was bad to stand up in class to give a report and say things like “fanger” for finger, and “thank” for think…as in “I thank this story is a terrabull waste of your time.”

I always worry when I write a story about real people who might actually read what I wrote about them. I don’t want them to be offended at my ineptness. For one thing, I don’t always get the details straight. I’ll get names mixed up. I’ll get place names confused. I’ll get facts out of order. But I do the best I can based on what I remember when the story was told to me.

I did this with Mr. Mervin Brantley just last week. If you read about Swervin Mervin, then you know the story. Once it was published, I found out that I got a few of the details wrong. Nothing major. The basic story was all there. I just missed some of the minor facts.

My buddy down in Buckeye told me not to worry about it.

Mr. Mervin is a very likeable fella. I hated that I messed up especially since he was the one I was actually trying to honor. He’s 90 years old and I didn’t want him to feel disrespected.

As it turns out, one of the ladies in the church there read him my story. The thief. The fast cars. The high-speed chase down the highway. He listened to every word. And when the story was over, so I’m told, he grinned.

His only comment, “I’m famous.”

But that’s not the end of the story.

I mentioned that on Monday I went to visit my granddaughter at summer camp. One of the camp counselors there was from Buckeye, a friend of Mr. Mervin’s. I thought I recognized him, but I wasn’t sure where I knew him from. When he spoke to me, though, I was able to put two and two together.

“How’s Mr. Mervin?” I asked.

“He’s good. He really enjoyed your story.”

“Whew!! That’s good because I know I messed up some of the details.”

So, Jeffery (that’s his name) tells me that back when the high-speed chase actually took place, some of the folks in the church had a T-shirt made for Mr. Mervin that said “HOT PURSUIT” on the front across the chest. He wore it a few times, but no one had seen him wear it in a while.

“After they read him the story,” Jeffery said, “the next Wednesday Mr. Mervin wore his HOT PURSUIT shirt to church that night. He was having a good time with it all.”

I almost never know where this writing of mine will land. I wonder what difference it will ever make. Some days I feel honored to put a story out there for the world to read. A lot of times I question whether I should have hit the publish button or the delete button on my computer.

But I send it out with a prayer for some good to come of it.

I can’t always make a story work the way I’d like for it to. But I keep doing it because we all have a story to tell. And my hope has always been that by my own stories you’ll be inspired to write your stories. Write them to your kids or grandchildren. Put on paper the experiences that have made you who you are. Tell them the things that will be forgotten unless you write them. Give them something that will last beyond your time on this earth.

Believe me, they’ll thank you for it one day.

So Mr. Mervin, if you’re reading this, thanks for being a good sport. Thanks for not being upset that I got some of the details mixed up. Thanks to the lady who took the time to read it to you. And thanks to Jeffery for letting me know that I didn’t ruin your reputation down in Buckeye.

Next time we’re down that way, Marion is gonna bring you some more of her peach cobbler. I hear it’s famous.

Like you.