He points to the empty chair by her side. “May I sit here?” he enquires.
“Yes, of course.” She nods her assent.
“You are a writer, miss?” He is peering beyond her latte to a screen bubbling with Times New Roman.
She wants to boldly answer yes, of course. But she pauses and wonders, Who is she, this writer woman?
Is she a writer when she is published; when 1000 pages of cheapish paper are wrapped in cardboard and duplicated 1000-fold with her name written on the top and her heart squeezed inside?
Is she a writer when she self-publishes on amazon.com, ten people download her work, and two of those five make it to the very last digital full stop?
Is she a writer when she sits in a public place, taps intermittently on a tired old laptop, and exchanges knowing nods with fellow wordsmiths who are likewise fuelled by the aroma of burnt coffee beans?
Or is she a writer when she walks home that afternoon? When she sees not the passing traffic nor the ‘Sale’ sign in Topshop, but instead visualises a conversation with a dashing admirer, imagines taking a bow after conducting Beethoven's 5th Symphony, and invents a daring rescue scene wherein a small child runs in front of a car and narrowly escapes death?
Are we not all writers, even if we do not commit pen to paper or text to Word? she wonders? Do we not all weave stories in our heads for our own private pleasure? Do we not invent dramatic show-downs, intellectual conversations and rescue scenes as we dream our way through life?
Yes Sir, she imagines saying, I am sat here in this little café typing on my screen and my head is bursting with imagined encounters. I have never been published but I am a writer.
She turns, but he has already dissolved.
A true writer doesn't need to be published. S/he writes for themselves in a first place, and then sometimes (depending on their mood) can make it available for other people, including publishers.
ReplyDeleteJust to share her/is pleasure with them.