The Nod

I love the passing of two writers in the corridor, the meeting of eyes, the nod of acknowledgment. We don’t speak because in my mind is the growing shape of a sentence and in hers might be the same. To speak would be to lose the words… we can’t take the risk. We are moving silently past each other, the fictitious worlds of our imaginations more real than the world of this place—with the silver heating ducts hanging from the ceiling, with the hardwood floor on which we walk, with the key for the restroom and the key to get back in. She opens the door for me. I hold it for her. We pass through.

What is she writing? I wonder momentarily.

She might take a moment to wonder the same.

It’s the other writers around me that give me renewed energy today. It takes work, sitting here, eyes on the screen, hands on the keys, and somehow, for some reason, seeing other people work helps me focus on mine. It is a Saturday afternoon, warmer than it’s been all week, and we’re cooped up in here. But hey, it’s not so bad. Not at this moment. Not at all.


  1. I’m beginning to wonder if I need a writing spot. I have done my best, most feverishly creative, writing at the foot of my son’s hospital bed and while babysitting other people’s sleeping children – that is, OUT of my own home. When my boy starts play group in September, I may have to start haunting my local library – with the books all in German, I won’t be distracted.

  2. That is why I have to go to a library or coffee shop to be creative..I feel peoples’ eyes on my back, I feel them wanting me to write about them and for them.

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