I ate alone last night at the corner sports bar and Cajun food. I ordered pasta with crayfish, and a glass of unremarkable Merlot. But that was not what I paid for, I paid for the window seat, I paid for the warm air and the softening evening. No one paid attention to me at all. I am invisible and so can watch to my heart’s content without being an object of interest myself.
I thought about many things as I watched the tourists. This is what I imagined real writers do daily, drink at the corner bar and watch the passers by afternoon after afternoon. reading, drinking, relaxing. Here are the heroes of the next book, here are the short stories, here is the screen play: the beautiful girl and the unkempt boy; the large fat couple who spoke like the middle of the country; the disgruntled teens trailing after their carefully paced parents. It was all here: ideas on the hoof, character sketches for dinner, walking contradictions and unintended metaphors with a glass of wine. The cafe, the wine and the view delivered everything an author could want. And more.
It’s easy to do this while I travel, why so difficult to do at home?