So, here I am, sitting at my table, a cup of coffee in hand, thumbing through my idea book of things to write about. It’s empty, by the way, and something about that empty white page scares me, so I doodle on it, cause isn’t that what you are suppose to do?
That’s when you walk over and sit in the seat next to me. I look up, we cordially exchange pleasantries with a brief smile or nod, and then I go back to thumping my scribbled on white page with my pen, as if that will somehow make words magically appear from my head onto the medium.
You take a sip of you beverage, and glance over to see what I am doing. I can feel you lean toward me, scrying on my wordless page filling up with lines. I think to myself…
“Great, now you are going to think I am some sort of weirdo, just scribbling away on nothing. Go back to your drink, leave me alone, can’t you see I’m… um.. what am I doing anyway??”
And that’s when you do it.
You pull your drink away from your face, lean in a bit more over my shoulder and say, “What you working on?”
Great, interrupted in my brainstorming of my next best selling novel. First, next, whatever.. but you have now broken my train of thought on scribbling, and it’s all gone.
At least, that’s what I would think, if I actually wasn’t secretly hoping you would become the distraction that would pull me out of my abyss of not knowing what to do or where to start.
I look up at you, hooking my pen over the edge of the book and closing the empty pages upon themselves.
“I’m trying to write down some thoughts for a book I am working on.” and then immediately finish in my head, “or better said, dying here, trying so hard to figure out how to do this.”
I am polite. I reach for my drink, turning slightly to open myself up toward you, letting you know that I am willing to engage you, but secretly turning away from the book and those horrid, heinous white pages.
“A book? That’s cool. What’s it about?” You ask with a genuine curiosity.
“What’s it about? What’s it about?!?” My thoughts scream at me. “I have no frigging clue what it’s about. I so lost and stuck, and I just want to throw this book across the room.” but instead of shouting that I simply state, “Oh, it’s about a girl and a cat and some of the adventures they go on.”
You smile, a bit unsure of my answer, and seeing that, I add, “Oh, and the cat talks.” Your face makes a weird scrunch. “Sounds interesting.” You say, pausing a bit to long between the two words.
“It’s for my niece. Something I am toying with.” I nod back at you then take a sip of my coffee. “She’s 9.” As if by saying that you will all the sudden understand all my anxiety of being stuck and why I am writing about talking cats.
You nod a bit, sip your own coffee and lean back.
Noticing you are getting ready to end the conversation and not wanting to be left to the darkness of the void that is my thoughts on this story, not wanting to have to be forced back into the torture device that is that little black composition book, I beg and plead with you to continue talking to me, but it simply comes out as…
“So, what about you?”