The Other Writer

Today at Starbucks I was not alone. A man with a backpack came in, sat down with his coffee and proceeded to pull out a journal and write. It felt very strange. I felt intruded upon and yet on the other hand it was like we two shared some deep secret. I smiled, he smiled back and we each went back to our writing.

I had to observe him and leave my story. I opened my character journal (the book where I keep interesting notes about people that I want to put in future stories) and started writing about him. "He writes slow in his quality leather bound journal. He prints-just a few simple outline notes and I wonder if he is a deep thinker and feeler or if he is writing something mundane like a shopping list or work notes. Maybe I intimidate him as I am writing with my usual vigor, unable to slow down or pause when the words come pouring out of me."

I thought about how true it is that you never really know someone and that you cannot judge a book by its cover. The other writer, "doesn't look like a writer to me. He is average height, 5' 10" perhaps, with a receding dark hair-line, round John Lennon glasses-definitely old and out of date; kahki pants with white runners that have gaudy bright orange and brown soles". I wonder, "are his shoes a "rebellion" against his staid looking persona or are they a cheap discount pair of shoes from Wal-Mart that just do the job. His leather journal is telling though-he clearly loves his book and handles it softly and gently".

He did not stay long. He closed his book, started getting his backpack in order and that is when it hit me. Maybe his book was a character journal like the one I was writing about him in. Maybe he was writing about the red haired woman in the skirt and new shoes who was eating oatmeal and writing. "She smiles to herself when she writes something that strikes her fancy & she gives sidelong glances to the people in the shop & then writes furiously". Maybe he's put down that "she don't look like a writer", that "she is a frumpy, slightly overweight woman writing in a journal and chasing empty dreams of grandeur".

It was with this realization that I discovered, that despite being surrounded by people in the shop, I like being the only resident writer--at least when I'm there. The other writer walked out the door and I was happy to have MY writing spot and MY private coffee shop back to myself.

Salynne ©2009