(no subject)

Nov 21, 2009 20:23

There's a coffee shop in town that used to be a church. It has pews instead of chairs and still has its old stained-glass windows. Sandwich names include The Roughrider, The Bully, and The Teddy; Theodore Roosevelt went to church here. Today I came to write and to meet another writer. And I did.

Gypsy's the first other writer I've met since I moved here in August. Yes, one of my coworkers has the title "writer," but, other than reports for work, she doesn't write. I assume she did once, assume she had stories inside her that wanted to be freed, but now, today, she writes only government reports. Gypsy, though, wants to write. She's working on her first novel, on her masters in literature, on finding a job in this little berg, and on raising her kids. We didn't get a whole lot of writing done at the coffee shop, but we talked about writing--something I haven't done since I've been here.

It's interesting to see yourself through other people's eyes. Gypsy thinks I'm "living the life. Doing it. Being a writer." Because I'm an editorial assistant for the BLM. Because I've done enough research and know enough published authors to be able to answer most of her questions. Because I've had scores of articles published. Because I write, regularly. But that isn't how I see myself. I see someone who writes and wants to write more, someone who knows she needs to put herself out there more often and write more pieces. Maybe that's what I'll always see; there is always more to write. Today I got to be someone's inspiration, and it was good.

writing

Previous post Next post
Up