So I’m staring at the margins of my notepad as I near the one-quarter mark of my current novel project and I find myself meditating on them. I delight in margins. I do. Really. And I’m not just procrastinating instead of working. Don’t get me wrong, I love words, but the words are the main event. I take great amounts of pleasure in the space between words. It’s where I make all my notes and where my creativity happens.

The in-between places.

Sort of like life. I can lead it moving from main even to main event. This past weekend was a trip to Chicago with the fam. Tonight is another “message board dinner party.” [Here’s an aside: I seem to be building a fan base one free meal at a time. Not the most cost effective way to promote yourself and I have nightmares about me at a book signing dressed like Julia Childs after dipping too much into the cooking sherry. In another nod to bass-ackwards marketing, I have contests on my message board, I just don’t tell anyone outside of it about them.] This weekend is the Indiana Black Expo, our boys’ combined birthday party, and Sunday we’re hosting our church plant meeting. All main events.

But you know what? Today Reese decided that we’re supposed to be helping people and fighting bad guys (um, we’ve been watching season five of Angel on DVD). Today Malcolm wanted me to hold him because he doesn’t want me to leave him. Today I sat on my porch b.s.-ing with my neighbors. All marginal moments.

The important places.

Okay, I’m just rambling now. Maybe I was procrastinating.

Comment on this bit of rantus interruptus anyway you want (I don’t know where you’re reading it from) but if you want to guarantee me seeing it, do so at my message board.