It’s quiet here, at the place where I go to write. The outer room was dark when I came in with my key, and I haven’t seen another person yet. Am I the only one here? People must be away, having escaped the city for better, cooler places this long holiday weekend. Still, I take my usual desk, people or no people, and set up as always. Or as I used to. It’s been a long time since I wrote simply for pleasure. I’ve opened up a blank document, typed the title at the top of the page. All I have so far is a title. Then a sentence. A sentence-in-progress, I should say, a temporary sentence.
Oh, here comes another writer. I’m alone no longer. It’s better that way, really. I like to hear the distant typing.