I'm a link in the summer stage car pool these days, my usual shift is the 4:30 pickup. One of my passengers is a tall, bohemian 17 yr-old who tells me he writes — once a week for an hour at the local coffee shop.
Crash tells me that's where you go to be seen to write. Am I a real writer if I prefer the solitude of my study? It's not clear my passenger thinks so. Crash and the Boy offered to bring up cups of cocoa and sit in the comfy chair in my office and watch me write, if that's what I need!
I'm with Kafka on this one: "You said once that you would like to sit beside me while I write. Listen, in that case I could not write at all. For writing means revealing oneself to excess...that is why one can never be alone enough when one writes, why there can never be enough silence around one when one writes."
I spent two hours on line at PennDOT today with the (dashed) hope of getting Crash a permit to drive. Twice as much time, and as big a crush as the coffee shop, and no way could I write. Particularly the piece that is percolating — on facing the night and the darkness. My hat's off to my teen passenger - writing briefly in the noisy square.
Photo by practicalowl via flickr.