Coffee: India Extra Bold Roast, Cafe Crema
We sat outside at two black tables with a tree taking up half the space. The tree was potted. Someone had stuck a bow in it.
‘Writers’ – what a weird word. Less a profession than a red-eyed cry of aspiration, though anyone of us claiming the title probably wishes there were dollar bills behind it. I called myself a writer in elementary school when my poems won contests and my first short story was printed and bound by the school librarian. Then I stopped in high school when I realized I was only writing for myself and friends.
Well, I’ve been published a couple times since then. It’s not much, nothing to brag about, but I mention it because it didn’t take the feeling of ‘not-a-writer’ away. In 2016, the sense that no matter who saw me, who read me, I might still feel insufficient sunk me like a swiss cheese boat. I’m still sinking. But I’m also working harder, planning smarter, and writing every day.
Am I a writer yet? Damning, liberating, only way I can respond is: who cares?
I ate falafel with friends from the Third Wednesday Open Mic tonight. They all wrote good words. Secretly, though, I spent half the night staring at the girl in the black dress with the boat-oar legs at a separate table; she was scribbling something furious in a bound journal.
Currently Reading: LaRose, Louise Erdrich
Support Relief for Family Suffering at the Border – RAICES DONATION CAMPAIGN
“A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.” – Thomas Mann