February 19

I talked to Rosie this morning and she prayed for me. I feel a lot better now. I had to dress up in black for Ellington's funeral-won't it be sad if I'm the only one there? I'm writing this at the little sandwich shop down the street from the office. I'm on lunch break, and I won't be back at the office 'till after the funeral. I'm getting paid for my time at the funeral, though, because I'm to write an article on it. What I'm going to write about though, I'm sure I don't know. I'll be replacing Kat's social columns, since she refuses to go. It's the biggest social function happening this week besides some party or something...I normally don't read her columns. I'm reading them right now, though, to see how she writes and what she writes about.

Oh, wonderful. She writes about clothes. I can do that. It's one of the things that I can actually do.

(Later)

The funeral was...interesting. I wrote a "perfectly phenomenal" article...but Kat reserves the right to edit as she sees fit. Hah! She'll probably add her own expertise so that it sounds just like her and no one will notice that it's not her. Oh well. Obituaries appear to be my specialty in life.

Anyway...oh yes, the funeral. It was mostly old people. By eavesdropping and socialized (maybe I have a talent for it. The old ladies thought I was "perfectly charming" and "sweet") I found out that most of them were Ellen's friends and came for her-not for old Eleazar Ellington himself. There were a couple younger people who either had bored expressions or sour bitter expressions. I found out that those people were family-ones that were required by social decree to attend-although it seemed like there were no social edicts demanding even false emotion. Perhaps Eleazar Ellington is simply an exception to the rule?

I did notice, however, that Ellen did not hire any mourners-as some rumors had hinted towards. Kat will probably edit out that part of my article. She was shocked how quickly I wrote up the blurb. But I write best when I still have all my fresh impressions and haven't processed them yet.

Ellen looked very seemly in her widow's clothing and was not faking her emotion-either that or she is one of the world's best actors. I personally don't think that she was, because she was softly sobbing the entire time. Someone had emitted the part of the ceremony in which people usually come up and say nice things about the deceased-very tactful on their part, I'm sure.

I waited until after the ceremony, during the reception, to speak to Ellen. I said I sympathized with her loss...and all the other proper things to say. She had a strange look in her eyes, though. As though she was confused, scared, and had something vitally important to say to me. But she simply murmured thank

My phone just rang here at the office. It was Ellen. She said she had something she needed to discuss with me. She asked if I could meet her at her house in twenty minutes. I explained that I had an editorial meeting in an hour. So I'm going over there for dinner. I wonder what she wants?

February 18th

So tomorrow is old Ellington's funeral. I can't get that out of my head. Ellen came the other day after reading my "perfectly lovely little thing" and invited me to the funeral. She looked so downcast and in need of encouragement that I said I would love to-which was true, if only for her sake. She left looking so happy but I think she left her depression behind-with me. I sat down at my desk with a sigh and good ol' Scottie came over and asked me what was wrong. I replied that I was just depressed for n0 reason. With a wry smile, he said, "Does the source happen to start with an "E"?" I smiled back, then picked up an assignment, signaling that our conversation was now over and that I didn't want to talk. He looked like he was about to argue, then grinned towards the wall behind me and walked back to his desk against the wall opposite me. I looked behind me of course, and saw nothing. I frowned and turned back to my work. I had to get my work done.

Ten minutes later, I sighed and grabbed my coat. I couldn't concentrate. I couldn't think. All I saw was Ellen's hopeful face and the feeling that her depression had been thrown onto me. I walked outside, craving fresh air. As I opened the door, a biting frost hit my face. I gulped in the fresh air, getting momentary relief from the depression. I glanced across the street toward the grocery, wishing I had someone with me who could cheer my mood. I sighed and glanced down the street. At 11am, there was a good amount of traffic but the noise seemed somewhat muted. I couldn't shake off the feeling of depression. I felt like I was drowning, suffocating, smothering, under the desolation of...I don't know what (I'm still depressed, hence my writing at two in the morning. I'm going to be exhausted tomorrow).

Anyway, Rob didn't come out to meet me. For some reason I was disappointed. Maybe it's because I'm a hermit? Because I don't have any friends but him and Scottie? Because I never see my old friends from Hamville anymore? Maybe because I only socialize with professional writers that race to the top and don't speak to me? Maybe because I think about dead people all day and need alive-people contact?

Great. Now I'm all wound up; I can't possibly go to sleep after that.

Is this the price of success? Feeling depressed and all alone, without friends?

Maybe I'll talk to Rosie tomorrow...she's always been able to cheer me up.