Free!

I scan the parking lot and don’t see the car I think That Guy drives. My friend, E., and I walk into Joe’s, and we see our friend K. He’s finishing up a short story. I look around. I look around again. No. That Guy is not here. At the counter, the barista asks me how I am. “Great!” I say.

“Great?” he asks.

“Certain people aren’t here!” I look around again. “No. Not here.”

He nods and the other barista walks over. “We’ve been looking up for him,” she says. They tell me how the owner, D. told them what to do. They’d all been talking about That Guy. “We’re looking out for you,” they say.

I had a good night. Amazing how much fun you have when no one is watching your every move. Or at least when you don’t believe someone is watching your every move.

Like writing. The things you can write when no editor, teacher, harpy, or weird guy is beside you! Freedom! A wonderful thing indeed.

Of course, Melodramatic Mind knows That Guy is still out there and there is still next Tuesday, and the Tuesday after that… but tonight is good.

Ordinary Mind and Melodramatic Mind Duke It Out

maybe I need this guy...

I try to live my life like a reasonable person. No, I don’t want any melodrama with my latte, thank you very much.

But part of my brain runs as if it were trying to write its own melodramatic novel.

In Bulgaria, I used to ride trams that had accordion sections connecting the compartments. When it went around corners it stretched and pulled back together. I’d sit in my seat calmly staring out the window or reading my book, but Melodrama Mind would be imagining the rubber folds tearing apart on a fast turn, and the passengers would tumble out on to the pavement, getting mangled under the wheels, and causing a massive traffic pile-up.

Melodrama Mind has survived mass murderers at the bookstore and air planes crashing into the apartment complex. When Jenna Bush lived across the street from where I worked, Melodrama Mind witnessed kidnappings and car chases (Melodrama Mind dodged out of the way as the Secret Service SUV parked outside her school sped by!).

Melodrama Mind certainly knows how to write a story about a fellow who works at the driver’s license department and who feels slighted.

So, Sunday morning, I went to meet a friend at Joe’s. I rarely go to coffee shops on Sunday, but my friend, C., and I need to go out of our way these days to see each other. I go a little early to get school work done. And on Sunday morning, surely, That Guy will not be there.

Ah. But he is.

I see him first, however, and can then keep my eyes focused on the baristas. I get my latte and go sit outside. It is going to 100 degrees soon, but I’ll sit outside to be away from That Guy. Maybe he didn’t see me.

I text C. to tell her I’m crazily sitting outside because That Guy is inside. He may not know I’m there. He probably doesn’t care any more. C. texts me back to say she is on her way.

Ordinary Mind knows That Guy is there like anyone else, possibly looking for the type of girl who goes to a coffee shop on a Sunday morning. Melodrama Mind thinks That Guy is staking the place out. Ordinary Mind knows this is vanity. It isn’t all about me.

Every time the coffee shop door opens, I bit the inside of my cheek and try to look towards the door without looking as if I’m looking. Melodrama Mind is exhausting.

I watch the parking lot for C. She lives only a few blocks away. And then I see That Guy, his bag over his shoulder, folders in his hand, looking around the corner of the building. I visibly, and quite uncool, flinch. I look away, and when I look back, he is disappearing around the corner.

Melodramatic Mind is running in circles. Ordinary Mind thinks That Guy could be looking for anyone or anything.

Both Minds realize–I can find out what kind of car That Guy drives. And I do. A sporty convertible. And there is a young woman in the car with him.

Both minds consider this could be his daughter. I know That Guy has an 18-year-old daughter. That Guy told me she’d just moved out to live with her boyfriend. Both minds consider this is a woman he’s picked up…on a Sunday morning…or a Saturday night? Then why look around the corner?

Neither mind is sure what to do with this. Ordinary Mind thinks I might have made a mistake. Maybe This Guy wasn’t That Guy at all. Melodramatic Mind thinks a girl who starts stalking her stalker would make a fun story.

Does the part of the brain that compels you to make up stories, does it sometimes take over the story of your life, adding drama and twists that maybe didn’t need to be there, but hey, the story on the page isn’t going anywhere, maybe the story that is you could instead.

Everything is under control.

where I'd like to hang out...if there's coffee

Almost 2 years ago, my son and the girl next door, L., had an art show in the breezeway between our apartments. They invited the other neighbors, and while L. didn’t want to sell any of her work, my son was happy to sell his. He seems to think selling art is normal.

L.’s mom bought a Halloween witch and hung it up in her kitchen window. A few weeks after Halloween, the apartment management sent her a letter telling her she had to take the witch down. With apologies to my son, she took the witch out of the window.

My son ran into our apartment, found paper and markers, and scribbled out a pumpkin, coloring it in, giving it a Jack O’ Lantern face. He taped that up in our kitchen window. “They better not send me a letter,” he said. “Because I’m not taking it down.”

“Good for you!” I said. “Fight the Man!”

“What man?” he asked. “I just don’t want the office telling me what to do.” Okay. Things got silly after that, but the picture stayed up for over a year and we never got a letter to challenge his determination.

Sometimes it’s best to be quiet. Sometimes you have to raise a fuss. It’s a talent knowing when to do which.

I’ve been thinking that this coming Tuesday, it might be best to skip my favorite coffee shop. Going somewhere else wouldn’t be a bad thing and might make sure the annoying guy got the message. Maybe by the following Tuesday, he’d have someone else. (Poor someone else.)

Then I think, why should I change for some stranger? Why does he get to go where he wants while I waste time wondering where to go?

But I get that knot in my stomach.

Kind of like that knot I get when I try to write a query letter. I’ve spent hours crafting query letters–reading, researching, writing, proofing, printing, posting… trying to come up with the right thing to say to get the outcome I want. That’s the way it works, right?

Other times, I get sick of trying so hard, writing and rewriting a sentence to prove I’ve done my research, that I’m marketable, that I’m worth someone’s time, when all the while I can’t prove any of that.

And I can’t control anyone else’s reaction to me.

Women in Cafes Alone

I asked friends to meet me at the coffee shop because I didn’t want to deal with the guy on my own. I wanted friends to hide behind. And I went an hour later than usual in hopes that he’d be gone by then. My stomach knotted as I parked, a tangle of anxiety (I hope the guy isn’t here) and anger (this guy isn’t going to ruin my favorite hangout, dammit).

My friends were waiting for me outside. If it hadn’t been 103 degrees, we might’ve sat outside. Inside, immediately, I saw him. The place was almost empty this time, and for some reason the music was off. I could see no way I could get by him without him seeing me.

My friends and I picked a table. He saw me. “Oh, hello,” I said as if distracted, and kept walking. I took a chair facing the window, but I had to pass him again to get to the counter. I chatted with the barista, a film student. I asked him why the music was off. The silence made the eyes boring into my back all the worse. The student was trying to fix it, and my voice is too loud and fake when I talk.

On my way to my seat, I nodded another hello to the guy. I didn’t want to be friendly, but neither did I want to anger him. Who knew what he was like when slighted?

My friends and I talked about our kids and school. The guy turned in his seat so he could watch us. I didn’t look, but felt him watching. He waited and waited. An hour went by. Another hour. I didn’t stop looking at one friend as if I were the best listener in the world. I wondered how long he was willing to wait.

About two hours apparently. One friend goes to make sure he is really gone. “If you had looked at him once,” she said, “he’d been over here.”

I talked to the barista, and found out another woman has complained about this guy. The barista said he’d seen this guy approach several women. I let my friends leave. I said I was going to write. But I couldn’t concentrate. I thought about the dark parking lot. I thought about my usual Tuesday nights at my favorite cafe, and the friends I’d met there.

I left early and the barista walked me to my car–even though he’s young enough to be my son. He said he’d tell the coffee shop owners about the guy. He told me not to stop coming there for my coffee.

I told him I’d come back, but maybe I’d wait a week or two. Give the guy time to move on.

Many of my students come from countries where women can’t go where they want when they want. They can’t do many things beyond what a man–father or husband–allow. The men won’t let them go out alone or even drive. I have Muslim students, and depending on what country they’re from, depends on how much freedom they have. A student from Egypt is here on her own. The students from Saudi Arabia are here with men to keep an eye on them. I don’t know how they stand it to be covered and veiled in this Texas heat.

Sometimes I think I’ve said something accidently wild. I told my class about a trip I took alone to Budapest where I got lost late at night for hours. Nothing like that could ever happen to them. So I assume. I could be wrong. I told them about complaining about a sexist professor. I wonder what I sound like to them.

It would be a mistake to think of them as naive or ignorant or incapable. They make some of the most astute observations in the class. They get the jokes. They are happy here though they miss the sounds of prayer.

But I have a hard time imagining them in coffee shops writing stories. They could of course. Why not? But I don’t know if the men allow it. There is no telling what might happen if a woman is out her own. The world is a dangerous place.

There is so much freedom in being allowed to go out and put pen to paper. We take it for granted and complain about block and time and publishing.

Some men seem to think that a woman on her own is a woman in need of his attention. Someone’s attention, for crying out loud! They can’t be happy or safe left with their own thoughts. A long time ago there was a young man who kept calling me and asking me out. I kept saying no. (His offer to show me–I kid you not–his “real bear skin rug” was not compelling.) He insisted I had to be seeing someone if I was saying no to him.

“No. I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Then you can go out with me.”

“No. You’re not my type. Really.”

“See. You are seeing someone.”

“No. I’m not.”

“You are, or you’d go out with me. Who is he?”

“Why is it so hard for you to believe that I’d rather be alone than be with you?” I said.

Finally, he stopped calling.

I’m wandering, but it is late. I’m tired. I’m angry. Why can’t a woman just go write?

Then again, it might’ve been like this…

The thing about last week, about last Tuesday and the boundary challenged fellow in the coffee shop, is that it was an unusual day already. No. That’s too dramatic.

But there was a tiny incident. I believe I said no one ever hits on me. And this is true. I mean, really.

But earlier that same day, I was putting gas in my car, when a man came over to me and handed me a business card. “Hello, ma’am,” he said. “I do tree removal.” The large, well-cared for truck was parked nearby. Before he could explain more, I said, “Oh well, I live in an apartment, so it wouldn’t be of much use to me.”

He looked disappointed, but he smiled. “All right, then.”

“I know people with houses though. Tell you what–I’ll keep the card and pass it on,” I said.

“Thank you.” He brightened. “And I’m single,” he said.

I laughed. “Ah. But I’m not.”

We both laughed. He wished me a good day and he went on his way, and I finished pumping gas.

Why tell a story? Why tell this story and not that story? To look smart, good, kind, better?

After this exchange at the gas station, I got in my car, and I thought–wow, someone hit on me…wait…maybe not…maybe I misunderstood. Oh well. That’s okay.

But why tell the story at all? What stories are we supposed to tell and why do we tell them? A small insignificant story…

What stories are we supposed to be telling?

Wedding Rings and Other Symbols

where I like to sit at my favorite coffee shop, write, and play with action figures

How do you feel when someone of the opposite sex who you don’t know strikes up a conversation with you? What do you assume?

My first thought is usually something like, “Does this person want money?” Then I chastise myself not to be so cynical. I have another thought. “Is this person hitting on me?” Then I remind myself not to be vain. I wasn’t a head turner at 20. I’m hardly likely to be one at 41 as a married woman with a kid. And, of course, I don’t want some strange guy hitting on me. What is wrong with me, anyway? Maybe he’s just friendly.

Or maybe he’s a writer and he sees I’m sitting here in this coffee shop drinking my latte and staring at the computer screen in a writerly way.

Or maybe he’s a psychopath with a newspaper clipping of Ted Bundy in his wallet.

These are the thoughts I had the other day when a guy sitting at the table next to mine at my favorite coffee shop (where I’ve been going almost every Tuesday evening for 4 years with, in all that time, one homeless guy asking for money and one nut job talking about how he can read lips & my art is juvenile–thank you) spoke to me.

First, though, when I reached down to plug my laptop into the wall, he reached over and moved the stool out of my way. It wasn’t really in my way, but okay. I said thanks. Then while I stared at my computer screen, he reached over and turned on the lamp on my table. I don’t need a man to judge the amount of light I need, but this thought is ungracious and maybe he’ll murder me in the parking lot, so I say, “Oh. Thanks.”

“What are you working on?” he asks.

Can there be harm in answering this question? Maybe he’s one of those over-friendly-talk-to-you-on-the-plane sort of people.

I answer. We chat for a moment. I turn back to my laptop. A friend of mine, N., shows up, sits next to me, and we chat merrily for a while about her project, and we get back to work.

I don’t like that I’m aware when this man gets up from his table. I don’t know what to think when he comes back and sits at the corner of my table to eat his pastry. “I’m taking a break,” he says. “Their desserts are good.”

I can feel my inner-self trying to strangle me from the inside when I say, “You should try the lemon cake.”

The other day, JES had post about super powers. Now if I were to claim a super power, it would be the ability to be nice when niceness is not required. In fact, I would even say I don’t have a super power as much as I have a stupid power. But there you go.

He and I chat about desserts. He talks to N. She isn’t entirely sure I don’t already know this guy, and she is nice too. Then two more friends happen by. They are dog owners, and I can’t resist telling them about the second dog my husband, son and I adopted over the weekend. We talk about adopted dogs. They go on their way. This guy now asks me about my dogs. Finally, I try to focus on my laptop.

The barista, M., comes over to see how I am. She always gives me a hug when I come in and I always turn off the ceiling fans for her at closing time (because she can’t reach the pulls!).

This guy reaches over and taps my wedding ring. “That’s a pretty ring,” he says. “Thanks,” I say and keep looking at the screen. “Very pretty,” he adds.

And another friend stops by the table. K. He says, “I’ve been here a while and every time I walk by you’re talking to someone different. it’s like you’re Mecca Marta. Everyone must come say hello!” K. thinks this guy is a friend and so introduces himself and I find out the guy’s name. K. continues, “You should start a salon. All these writers come and talk to you! I think this place should give you a cut of the profits for the people you bring in.” On and on he goes, until he goes back to the other room to write.

I excuse myself and on the way back to my table, Barista M. and I run into each other. We do that dance people do when you can’t figure out who will go which way, and I grab her hand. “We could dance.”

She spins me around in front of the counter with the creamers. We laugh. I sit down again and the guy says, “Wow, you’re tall.”

This is it! I think. Men hate how tall I am. So many men have stopped talking to me when they realize I am tall. “6’1 and a smidge!”

“I’m 6’3″,” he says. Well, I’ve known tall men who wanted nothing to do with tall women, so I don’t abandon hope.

Anyway. By the end of the evening this guy has asked about my son and my husband and he’s asked me what I like to do in my free time, and when he leaves, he gives me his phone number.

At closing time, I talk to Barista M. while she sweeps and I turn off ceiling fans. “You know, I didn’t know that guy.”

“Was he hitting on you?” she asks.

“No one ever hits on me,” I say.

“Maybe they do and you don’t realize it.”

“No one ever hits on me. I’m not kidding,” I say.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” she says.

I want to offer my evidence. I want to tell her about the boyfriend embarrassed to be seen with me, the boyfriend who wouldn’t kiss me, the father who never said I was pretty. But that all sounds lame and pathetic and like a fishing line being cast for the ever glittery compliment fish.

Hey, who doesn’t like the compliment fish to splash her tail in his direction every once in a while?

Wicked little fish.

When someone wants to read my writing, I wonder–why? Whatever for? Really? Are they crazy? Are they being polite? Do they want something?

If no one wants to read my writing, I figure–of course not. Wait, why not? Am I horrible? Oh, my writing is terrible, isn’t it? I can’t polish it enough for anyone to take seriously.

But if I talk about it or ask someone to read my writing, am I fishing for compliments?

Honestly. Why isn’t there a pill for this kind of thinking? Or a magic fish?

And if you’ve got all the answers, would you mind telling me what kind of jerk compliments a woman’s wedding ring and then gives her his phone number? Or have I got this all wrong?

This Lipstick Is All Wrong

I was meeting a friend for coffee and cake. I set my purse down beside me, and it fell off the bench onto the floor. The contents rolled every which way under the table. My reaction was what you’d expect. I picked up everything in a hurry and sitting nicely by the time my friend arrived.

A little while later, in the ladies room, I decided to put on some lipstick. I rarely wear lipstick, but having to the pick the lipstick tube up off the floor reminded me that I even had lipstick to wear. I slipped the lipstick in the side pocket of my purse. Closed the purse securely, went back to my friend.

I dug around in my purse for my phone and saw the lipstick. Funny. I could’ve sworn I’d put that in the little side pocket. I opened the side pocket. A second lipstick.

Same brand. Same color. But not mine. Which one I used on my lips, I’ve no idea.

What are the odds that the exact same lipstick as I use would be on the floor under the restaurant table? Is that where the lipstick came from? Can’t say as I’m thrilled with the idea of using a stranger’s lipstick. Not that I dropped dead, but, you know, it just isn’t right, is it?

Here’s a crazy idea…

Just putting this out into the world… over at Words are Art and Lake Belle I’ve got a deal on stories and art for the holidays. Yes, I know it is a wee bit early to think about holidays, but if you want something handmade, sooner is better.

Even if the notion doesn’t appeal to you, please pass the word! Thank you. Now go make something.

Sugar Highs and Research

I'm cheating by using this picture again, but didn't my dad make a nice cake?

The scientists took two groups of children and told the parents that the children would go to a party. At the party the children would eat candy and cake. This was not true.

One group of children did go to a party with cake and cake. The other group of children, however, ate vegetables, crackers, and cheese.

All the parents believed that all the children had eaten cake and candy. When asked about their children afterwards, all the parents talked about how wild their children behaved after eating so much sugar.

All the parents perceived their children as acting hyper because of too much sugar even though half the children had had no sugar at all. The scientist said it isn’t the sugar. It is the excitement. The children weren’t any more hyper after cake. If they were hyper, it was the running around with other children that did it. Or it was the myth of sugar encouraging parents to believe their children were more hyper.

When I tell parents this, they say, almost without exception, that their children were affected by sugar.

You can’t beat perception. If you think that the publishing industry is one way, are you right? Can anything convince you otherwise? Is your work what you think? How do you know you’re right, anyway?

Fridge Magnets & Other Gifts

Years ago, I made an afghan for my step-mother. I took care to match the colors of her room and get the right size for the bed. Only, I hadn’t mastered crocheting and the cover ended up much too big. It reached the floor from one side of the queen-size bed to the other. But I was proud of it, and I had this silly idea that spending so much time on a gift for her would finally prove to my father that I liked her.

About a month after I gave her the afghan (that took an entire suitcase on my flight home for Christmas vacation), they redecorated the bedroom and the colors no longer matched. I didn’t see the thing for a very long time, until about 10 years later when it was used to cover up flowers during a freeze. We’ve certainly never discussed it.

I’d like to be Zen about it. When you give a gift, give it. Let it go. They’ll like it. Or they won’t. It isn’t about you. The gift is just a thing. And don’t we all get gifts we hate from people we love? Sure.

But every gift-giving occasion makes me want to ram my head into the steering wheel of my car.

So, my writing is reminding me a bit of this afghan business. I send these stories into the world, and, you know, it just doesn’t match the wallpaper. What are you going to do? Are you really going to ask someone to keep something out for company to see to make you feel better?

I like this old British comedy The Thin Blue Line. A rather dim character blames juvenile delinquency on fridge magnets. He argues that parents put the worst sort of scribblings on the fridge with the magnets and ooo and ah over the so-called art, leading the child to expect such a response to everything they do. Maybe there is some truth to that… though I’d like to see the fridge magnet that could hold up my novel!

Oh well. Watch the first part of this clip. Every writer should appreciate the appropriate subjects for fiction.