India Rivers

The other day I walked into a coffee shop nestled on the infamous Pacific Coast Highway in Southern California and spotted. a writer. Having traveled abroad, discovering another writer invokes the same familiarity as bumping into an American while navigating through a sea of an unfamiliar culture. I recognized her as a writer though she presented herself in what is now a very peculiar manner. She was the diamond in the rough that is recognized by a similarly unpolished gem. The environment and setting was perfect, she sat on the patio at a small metal table with a cup of coffee steaming in front of her. What gave her an uncharacteristic appearance were the spiral notebooks and leather-bound journals that surrounded her. In her mouth was a ballpoint pen tapping gently on her teeth as plots, characters, storylines, and the perfect ending swirled around in her mind.

In this day and age of "now" I was shocked to meet someone who approached the creative process the old-fashioned way. Understand I am not judging nor belittling the modern day laptop user. I am that writer. I am the writer that just had to go out and purchase the sleekest, shiniest and most innovative laptop I could afford before I could even dream of starting a blog. How am I to write without the perfect word processor and blogging software? Gone were the days of the inviting prod of a black and white, brand new composition notebook filled with fresh, white, untouched pages. The comfort of a favorite pen that made the words just spill on to the pages has been replaced with the gentle hum and peck of a powerful machine.

This traditionalist author faced writing in the most self imposing method possible. She had no delete key to erase the ridiculous storyline she had been chasing for the past twenty-five pages. She had no CMD-up arrow keys to search through pages and pages to remember if the backdrop of her novel was the beach or the river.

No, she had to do this the old-fashioned way; she had to face her writing failures head on. If she made a mistake then she is forced to either one-line or scribble out her erroneous thoughts. The constant reminder
remains until she relents and tears away the page. This is raw, unadulterated writing.

I dared not disturbed her but just had to comment on how inspiring she was. Her zeal for writing and recognition as a writer were apparent in the brief encounter we shared. Her eyes seemed to occupy the conversation as the flickered about as she spoke of her passion. She was a writer. she was afraid, self-conscious, unsure, and flattered all at the same time. She was candid and relieved when I told her I too had found myself writing three separate novels at the same time unsure if I'd finish one of them. We shared a kinship in the span of ten minutes when we confessed that we wanted the world to read our words but wanted none of the judgment that was sure to follow.

Thank you, renaissance writer. Thank you, proprietor of the pad and ink pen for reminding me of all the reasons I began writing the stories that played out so vividly in my mind as a child. I want to believe that this encounter was God's way of telling me to keep writing. I want to believe that He puts little mirrors in all of us so that we can see ourselves in the ambition of others.

Hello world, India Rivers and I are writers.