Last night I sat around, at the cafe drinking coffee and doing mostly nothing. And by nothing I mean stealing glances at the girl sitting across from me. Cause really when it all comes down to everything in life, it’s all about stolen glances. There’s truly little else worth doing.
However stealing glances doesn’t put food on the table, or novels in the book store. A 30 something African American woman named Mary however just might.
I’m sitting around doing nothing, starring, drinking, IMing, taking
pictures of my coffee cup when this woman appears from the ether and declares “I see you everywhere. everywhere. and always walking.” So I know if must be me. Even though she sites an example “I just saw you walking on Melrose”. Never happened, but I assume she’s just confusing one place for another, or one of my many doppelgangers has infiltrated her synapses. Normally I’m compelled to correct someon. Tell them it wasn’t me, but I suppose telling people they’re wrong is negative. For whatever reason I don’t. I introduce myself to Mary and she asks me:
“Are you a writer?”
“Not yet, not published.”
“I am. Published. next time you see me sit down and we’ll talk agents.”
Is it really that easy? Can the help of a complete stranger be all I’ve been waiting for?
Last night while I was standing in front of the mirror I got the urge to read my novel again.
I can’t remember what triggered it, in fact it’s been awhile since I didn’t feel like “ug, the novel”
I like these moments. It’s the one time I don’t mind be alone. So I’m actually sitting here writing double, pulling it old school at the same time. That’s my chicken scratch over there. I’m writing about the horrible connection problems I was having at the cafe ad the exact opposite stuff I was just talking about, not planning. Ah hypocrisy I love thee so.
Gone Fanpage
