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.