And I like to spend my lunch hour over at the cafe across the street from my office, hunched over one of the tables with earphones on, music playing, scribbling madly in a notebook.
Sometimes I laugh.
Once I cried.
Half the time, I’m staring off into space trying to figure out how to put what I’m seeing in my brain into words and onto paper.
So needless to say, I tend get a lot of strange looks from the people passing by my table. (Especially when I laugh. I sound a little bit like an intoxicated donkey.)
One pair of fellow lunchers even stopped next to me and started talking about me.
“What’s she doing?”
“Oh look! She’s writing!”
I wrote that experience down in my notebook, actually, while they were there talking about me. Every conversation or experience is fodder for the imagination! Especially mine.
So if you happen to run across me at lunch and I look or act like I should be escorted to the closest padded room, pay me no mind.
I’m just a writer.