Well, I’m sitting at Waterstones and I’m stuck and annoyed so thought this might be a good idea to just rant and spout this all out and see if that helps me start writing. I’ll write for five more painful minutes. And stop deleting. Just write. Whatever happens, happens. That’s what the book wrote, right? I think it was ‘Writing Down the Bones’. Just that writers must write and even though the beginning is utter crap, somewhere along the way they get into the comfort of working their brain and fingers and end up just doing it.
I need to stop hitting backspace so naturally.
This seat isn’t comfortable. I bet that’s just an excuse.
There’s an old woman across from me. She was eating hummus earlier. Hummus. In Waterstones. On a book. Can you believe it?
I offered her help in opening the package. It looked like she was going to spew it all over the book table. And now she’s doing it again. I wonder if it’s the same packet of hummus or something else. Her tongue is sticking out between her lips from the force. And she did it! Congratulations ma’am. You have earned the Nobel Prize in opening hummus. I really do admire her though. She must have a lot of stories to tell.
She took a mouthful of it, and licked the spoon clean. Then took another and shook her head so subtly before closing the packet and dropping it back in her bag. Unsatisfied, I bet. Even after all the effort. And yet she made sure the spoon, which is still gripped loosely in her fingers as they pry open a newspaper to the sports section, was spotless. She holds the paper mere inches from her hooked nose and her white hair is parted down the middle. Her eyes, sagged with age and marked with a brown tint on the left, are squished to slits as she peers at the paper. She rustles it shut and, with a trembling grip, pulls the hummus back out from her back. Mixes it, and shovels three spoonfuls, this time much more enthusiastically, into her mouth. Hmm, the temptation could not be fought off for long, I guess! The spoon is sucked on and placed in the outside pocket of a second leather bag. The paper is retrieved and rustled open. The crinkle of these sheets and the tapping of keys from my computer are the only thing I can hear in this room. Odd, since there are at least three other people here. A man in a blue shirt who I would bet is a banker or works for the government or is a teacher – yeah, probably a teacher – is browsing books on the ‘Spitfire Manual 1940’ – at least that’s the only one I can see. I’m not sure what the other six in his pile are. He has his back to me. Two other men, both wearing blue blazers and carrying open blue backpacks, though one is dark blue and the other light, are browsing books. And another lady in a black top and pants, which are way too low to hide her crack, walked past too. I’m much more comfortable, in the grove of the moment now. That’s good. Maybe I should try again. Just maybe. Although fear creeps into me and suddenly I’m aware that my back hurts quite a lot. I made the time pass. That’s good.