It was the first semi-warm day Atlanta had in quite some time. I was walking down the broken sidewalk (how cliché’!) in West Midtown, dodging the bums as I made my way toward my favorite hip little coffee shop. I could smell spring coming in the air. A little dampness and sweetness mixed into one smell. God I love that smell. It was suddenly interrupted by a smell of rotting skunk. I abruptly stopped and turned around, thinking I had stepped on some road kill. A wave of guilt rushed over me when I realized there was a bum standing behind me, about to ask for money. I quickly mumbled my apologies and that I, in fact, had absolutely no cash, and stumbled along toward the coffee shop. In my haste I tripped over the gap in the sidewalk and almost fell on my face. The bum laughed, but I let him. I did deny him money after all.
I didn’t have much time to spare seeing how I was on my lunch break from Creative Loafing. With everything being so vague there, it’s extremely hard to know whether or not you’ll get the stink eye that day for taking an hour lunch…or if they’ll ask you why you hurried back so quickly after an hour and fifteen minutes. This literally happened to me in the span of two days. Gotta love alternative news weeklies.
When I entered the brightly colored coffee shop with “inexpensive looking” expensive vintage furniture, I was hit by a blast of cookie and espresso smell in the face, though I didn’t mind the blow too much. I was pretty used to it by this point, not only because I practically live in coffee shops, but I’m also a retired ninja and all…though after thirteen years of martial arts I am still afraid of bums. However, being hit in the face with the smell of coffee and espresso was much more appealing than being hit in the face by a dank, old sweat smelling sparring glove, literally up my nose…but I digress.
The woman behind the counter was extremely chipper and cheerful. “Must be the owner,” I thought. “Nobody is genuinely this happy…except maybe Rachel Ray”…and as for her, I’d like to punch her in the nose with a dank old sweat smelling sparring glove…if you know what I mean.
I tried to be nice and polite back to her but I gotta be honest, I had the hangover from hell. I ordered my large vanilla soy latte and gave her a ten…immediately feeling like a jerk for lying to the bum…but why? I took my seat and I began feeling pretty emotional which was partially bum guilt, partially my hangover…but mainly because I am too damn nice.
I suddenly felt like I really wanted to write something. “That’s it!” I thought. Maybe I’ll begin my masterpiece today! I feel inspired!” I opened the journal to a fresh new page, which is the best feeling in the world in my opinion. When I thought that, I felt even more inspired. “Only a writer would think of this right?!”
Man, I truly am a dork.
With my burst of confidence I stared at the blank page.
And stared.
And stared.
“Great”.
Then I began to freak out like I always do when I have the urge to write but don’t know what to say, only this time I wrote what I was thinking down in my journal. This is what my manic mind poured out:
“I suck! Why can’t I do this? I wish this came naturally…like everyone else? Wait everyone else? How many writers have been in my position? Uh…all of them? Jesus I need a cigarette! I need to quit smoking. I was going to quit today and it has only been 24 hours…Jesus I’m nuts…but maybe that can translate into GENIUS!”
In my psychotic haze my hand begins to cramp up as I am jotting all of this down. I don’t even notice when the Rachel Ray lady puts my drink of the table. She more than likely was frightened and didn’t want to say anything because my face was probably scrunched up with intensity, my tongue sticking out…which is what I always do when I concentrate unfortunately. Cursing my hand because it won’t move fast enough and longing for my laptop, I feel like people are looking at me. “Great,” I think, “I’m the a-hole pretentious writer with no talent who comes to coffee shops to write so I can look like I am somebody and/or know what the heck I’m doing.”
I look up at the people around me…. they are smirking!! In my constant paranoia I immediately know for certain they are laughing at me.
I keep going anyway. I am on a roll. I even begin laughing at my own jokes as I write them down. Jesus I am retarded. I hear myself chuckle. “Oh God, was that actually out loud?! Can they hear me?” If I can make myself laugh…that is a good sign though right? Maybe others will think it is funny and laugh with me…instead of at me like these people. Or maybe they’d only think it was funny if they could see my face scrunched up, brow furrowed, hand cramping, and tongue out with sweat coming down my head as I struggle to write everything down that comes to my mind.
But this is exhilarating! I feel like a writer! I am on lunch break from Creative Loafing for Christ’s sake.
My cell phone rings and it’s my supervisor Rodney. “Abi, it has been 30 minutes…” he says, “Where are you? We need you to enter in more events listings for the sound menu.”
Damn.
Screaming out of my euphoria, I remember I am a lowly intern at Creative Loafing who enters data. Not a real writer with a capital “W”. Today must be the stink eye day for me again. I slink out of the coffee shop and run back to my car feeling bad for dodging the bums because this time, I felt I should give them money due to my lie before. But then I figured, if I am going to try and be a writer with a capital “W”, I will need all the spare change I can get…especially at the rate I’m going.
Abigale Writes 