"Writing a book there?" the café stranger asks, thumbing his novel.
"A journal," I say. I'd been assessing his shoes; dust coats his boots and cascades up Carhartt pant legs. Perhaps carpentry or construction—like my brother.
"There must be a lot happening in your life," he says,
"A journal," I say. I'd been assessing his shoes; dust coats his boots and cascades up Carhartt pant legs. Perhaps carpentry or construction—like my brother.
"There must be a lot happening in your life," he says,
gazing out the window. His tone is curious, friendly: "You're just writing away."
"I've always done it. Since I was 8."
"In the same book?"
"Different ones."
"Hm," he nods. "Maybe everything you've written will become a book. Your life story."
I smile. "I don't think my life's
"I've always done it. Since I was 8."
"In the same book?"
"Different ones."
"Hm," he nods. "Maybe everything you've written will become a book. Your life story."
I smile. "I don't think my life's
that interesting."
He rubs his chin. "There's probably a purpose to it though, if it's something you've always done."
"I think about that. But I'm not sure what purpose there might be."
"We might not do things," he says, leaning back, "if we knew the future." He opens his novel.
He rubs his chin. "There's probably a purpose to it though, if it's something you've always done."
"I think about that. But I'm not sure what purpose there might be."
"We might not do things," he says, leaning back, "if we knew the future." He opens his novel.
***
The 2006/08/03 journal entry, paraphrased in this thread:
The 2006/08/03 journal entry, paraphrased in this thread:
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