Never mind the stupidity in how I lost my commonplace book (a term I use because Karl Edward Wagner used it to describe his notebooks), it is gone. Left on the floor of the Jackson Street subway, 7:26 PM last Monday. I know this from a phone call I made, the number having been in the book. I had that thing filled up with sections of Proactive Contrition, several stories, everything has already been typed up, be it fragments or entire stories. And so it goes. The story of my owning the commonplace book now becomes the story of the next person reading the crazy thing. And likely looking over his shoulder as he waits for the Red Line at Jackson.
