I'm working on a new story. Sometimes, I think my life seeps a little too much into my fiction. Here's the current opening:
"It�s his turn to make dinner. Ravi doesn�t remember that until he walks in the door, 5:45 and he has just fifteen minutes to get to daycare and pick up his son. He is starving. Beth is home from work already, has picked up their daughter from aftercare and brought her home; he can hear their voices from the kitchen table, muffled review of homework. Beth likes to get it done before dinner; it�s the only way to get the kids to bed at a decent hour. Their lives work, they do, but they are as regimented as a soldier�s, bound to the inexorable sweep of the clock hands, the overlapping entries on the shared online calendar. Everything works as long as everything is done exactly right; there is no room for error..."
