What I Write

I was at a coffeeshop today and a woman walked up to me to ask me what I was doing. I looked up from my laptop and told her I was writing. She asked what I was writing. I didn't want to answer, but she asked again, as if I hadn't heard her. I relented and said, "I write many things. Poetry, fiction, nonfiction. Haiku, sonnets, free form, short stories, plays, articles. I play with style, form, grammar; I let my mind wander, fantasize about what I haven't experienced, record what I have. Science fiction, horror, magical realism, surrealism, absurdity, philosophy, history, cultural studies, it doesn't matter, I write it all. I write short sentences. I write very long and involved sentences, compound and complex, sentences that grow word after word after word until, suddenly, they end. I write what I see, I write what I think, I write what I feel, I write what I know and what I don't. Like I said, I write it all."

I paused to allow her the chance to speak. Her eyes were glazed and I wondered how much of what I'd said had registered. I didn't care and since she said nothing I continued. "I can keep going if you want. I once wrote about how the universe began, a creation story that, in my opinion, rivals the ridiculousness of Genesis. Right now I'm writing about an art event I attended three years ago. Yesterday I wrote an entire journal entry using three-word sentences: 'I am here. You are there. I hate you. You love me. Love is good. Hate is, too.' Do you see? Are you privy? Ya feel me? Get my jib? I see you. You see me? Are you there? Hello, you there? That was it. I am done. Now, your turn. Want to speak?"

She didn't get it. She just stared at me. Her jaw was slack and her eyes were dead. I gave her some rope. "Sorry, I guess three-word sentences can be hypnotic. I'm sure your ability to speak will return shortly, but since you seem to currently be living in your own private Never-Never Land I'm going to take this opportunity to ask you if I could write you naked." I paused to see if anything registered. Her eyebrows raised and her nose twitched a bit. Signs of life. I continued, "What I mean is, would you be willing to pose nude for me while I write the curves of your body in prose? Lyrical prose, obviously, because your body, from what I can see through your clothes, has soft, supple slopes and rises that demand poetic interpretation. I don't think poetry is quite right, but lyrical prose seems perfect. Of course, I'd have to see you without any clothes, look at you from different angles while you transition from pose to pose. Even with clothes, though, I can tell that graphic realism would not capture how you really look. In fact, it would distort the liquidity of your movements, the way your muscles dance with your bones. I can also tell by the uncertainty hiding behind your brown eyes that too much detail would make you uncomfortable. This suggests a discomfort with your body, with me, or possibly both your body and me ... your naked body observed and described by me."

I stopped speaking and looked at her, putting my hand to my chin while tilting my head this way and that as if I were studying her physical appearance. I wasn't; I was mimicking in order to create the illusion that I was studying her. I wanted to see how she'd react. Her body had become decidedly more tense and her eyebrows whispered to her eyes, "What should we do? I'm simultaneously frightened and intrigued." I lowered my head and slumped in my chair, letting her off the hook. I gave out a laugh and looked up at her with a teasing grin. "Hey, don't freak. I'm just playing with you. I mean, yeah, I want to write you naked, but, I mean, do you think I really expect you to acquiesce just like that?" I sat back in my seat and sighed happily. The woman seemed to lighten up a bit as I saw the inklings of a smile and the muscles of her face relax. Her body once again displayed her liquidity.

She opened her mouth as if to speak but I jumped in quickly to catch her with her guard down: "I mean, we haven't even kissed yet. I certainly don't expect you to take off your clothes before we kiss." I winked at her and smiled slyly, moving not an inch in my chair. She shook her head side to side slowly, giving me a "you rascal!" grin. She took advantage of my silence and spoke. "Well ... I did not expect all of that," she waived her arms around, gesturing wildly, "when I asked you what you write. You are full of yourself, aren't you?" I responded, "Well, you seemed half empty and I was overflowing so it all equals out in the end. I've got more of me in the trunk of my car if you'd like a six-pack to take home with you."

She spoke again, more life in her voice and spunk in her tone, as if she'd finally realized that the muscles in her throat were good for more than breathing and swallowing. Her eyes peered intensely and she moved her body in a much more animated way. I'd tuned out the words she was speaking, paying attention mainly to the nonverbal communication being delivered. Flirting is a tricky thing, especially with a complete stranger. In this case, I felt it wise to let her rant runs its course. I turned away from her and began writing. As she slowed, I turned back to her, looking up at her with wide eyes and an open-mouthed grin.

"You've just given me a great idea. Thank you so much for saying those things! Brilliant! I'm sorry to cut this conversation short but I have to capitalize on the inspiration before it dissipates. The way of the writer. You understand, I'm sure."

I began to turn back to the computer but quickly turned back to her as if I'd forgotten to tell her something. "I'm going to be here tomorrow evening, probably around seven. I planned on having a little caffeine, doing some writing, and then going out for a drink and a bite to eat. I'd enjoy seeing you again if you're free." I turned back to the computer and began writing extraordinarily mundane sentences with great intensity. Not one of them flowed together, but I was certain that I looked inspired.

After a few moments she walked past me toward the door, pausing half way there to look back. I saw with peripheral vision an awed but confused look and then a quick shake of the head as she walked out the door. I continued tapping away until she was completely out of sight. I picked up my drink and took a sip, leaning back in my chair. I sighed while realizing I'd just made plans for the next day. I couldn't tell if she had or not, but that's part of the fun, isn't it?