Was it Stephen King who said that those who sit in coffee shops and cafes with their laptops are those who want to be seen writing rather than actually writing?  I can’t remember who wrote that, but I remember laughing out loud.  Being fairly new to the taste of coffee, I have gone into these places and smiled inside (with a superior look, I’m sure) at those sitting with their laptops.  I’ve even felt that I can point out who is the writer and who is sitting there playing Mafia Wars (my husband).  One place had a young man with stylishly messy curls, those tiny little rectangle glasses, the carefully casual clothes, and boots that have never tasted dirt.  He looked so earnestly hard at work.   A writer struggling with his craft.  Yet I never saw his fingers touch the keyboard.  Not even once.  So I doubt he was writing, or even editing.  But he sure looked like a writer.

Now, with the advent of the Christmas laptop from the Mafia Wars husband, I have become one of those coffee-house writers.  The reason?  High speed internet.  We don’t have the internet at home, and locally it is still dial-up.  Which was fine with me, until my husband and son made it so easy for me to discover the joys of the real world.  I write a blog post, click  ‘publish’ and whoosh, it’s gone.  No waiting and waiting and waiting for it to download.  Of course that ‘whoosh’ means I have to be really sure I’m ready for the piece to disappear before I hit the send button.

I now sit in the local coffee shop with my laptop, and feel very self-conscious, very aware that others can look at me and think, ‘there’s a writer on display and not writing’.  But here’s something else I’ve discovered besides high-speed internet.  For some strange reason, it’s easy to write with the background noise of commerce.  I used to write with music, and still do.  I can write in absolute quiet, too.  Or at least I used to, until radiation changed my writing, as I’ve posted ad nauseam.  I’m still learning what works for me when it comes to writing, and clearly, I like that public noise.  I don’t think it will work for editing; for that I still need quiet and solitude.  But for writing a blog post that’s going to be public, a crowded coffee shop works.  Weird.

I’m sure all writers know the old adage that if you are blocked or struggling, to try a different writing location.  Move from the bedroom to the living room, from the office to the couch, from the laptop to the notebook, etc.  I guess that works. 

And just so you know, when I’m sitting there in front of the laptop and not writing, not touching the keyboards, it’s not because I’m wanting to be seen as a struggling writer.  It’s because I’m eavesdropping on all the conversations around me and saving up tidbits to appear later in stories.  As the other old adage goes, ‘Careful or you’ll end up in my novel.’

I remember many years ago talking about writing with my mother.   She very carefully suggested that I find a ‘backup plan’.  She didn’t say this in a cruel way, but in a very worried tone.  I proceeded to haul my notebooks and pens into the closet, where I kept writing in secret.  However, I carry inside a critic who looks and sounds exactly like my mother.  She sits behind me and whispers to me that writing is futile, my writing is terrible, and then she proceeds to drop a crushing weight labelled ‘why bother’ on top of me.

Most of the time, especially the last two years dealing with radiation fallout, I find it next to impossible to crawl out from under that critic.  But sometimes I manage to take a healthier view and realize that a writer can learn from that internal critic.  If you can find a way to take only what you need to improve your craft, and leave behind all the personal insults, that inner critic can become a strength rather than a debilitating voice.  But, man, that’s hard.  Very hard.

Which brings me to a good friend who shall remain nameless here.  She struggles with an inner critic who is at least the size of mine, if not larger and heavier.  This inner critic lately has been relentless, and the result is that a few days ago she told me, through tears, that she is walking away from writing.

Now, I’ve tried to do that, too.  And I know others who have.  Because writing is damn hard.  Those who don’t write probably don’t understand how hard it can be, but trust me, it is.  What usually happens is that you leave writing, and then over a space of time, days, weeks, months, a tiny little movement starts inside.  Words just stirring ever so slightly in there, like a tiny leaf floating and circling gently in a tiny track of water.  After more days, weeks, months, the leaf starts to swirl, the track of water becomes a stream, and is followed by the realization that the stories are there, and you can’t walk away because they go with you.

I’m hoping this abandonment of part of my friend’s soul is temporary, like it has been for other writers.  But she sounds pretty serious and the pain is so strong.  If she comes back to writing, it’s going to be a long, long time.  And during that vacuum of no words, the rest of us will have lost something because her writing is so strong and so powerful.  If only that inner critic of hers would shut up or die, if only she would believe me when I tell her that the critic is lying.

But for now, her river of stories has been so  flooded with tears that the words have sunk to the bottom.

If I could commit murder on those amorphous inner critics I would.  But for now I’m in mourning.

I have a tee-shirt I use for exercising that says ‘Find Your Own Trail’.  I love that.  Why?  Because ‘Find Your Own Path’ is a cliché, a therapy phrase, a word that conjures things like group hugs and synergy and sidewalks.  Finding a trail brings visions of originality, mystery, and uniqueness.  The trail I seek curves around boulders, humps over tree roots, secrets itself under overhanging sword ferns and salal, peeks shyly through shadows and rain drops and the very occasional sunbeam.  It smells of sap and cedar, moist forest floor, clean breezes and granite.  Really.  Have you ever sniffed granite?  Pick up a rock and hold it close, especially if it’s been in the sun.  You’ll smell that distinct scent of rock. And let’s not forget the miniature world bordering the trail, where Kinnickinnic and pippsissewa bloom.  Say those words.  Don’t they sound more intriguing than if I’d just said, ‘tiny bell shaped pink flowers’?

A trail wanders so that you can’t see the end, only the next bend.  A path is straight and clear with no suspense.  There’s no wonder, no discovery, no way to dream yourself into a story about what you might find as you round that boulder or tree.

Really though, aren’t they both the same word?  Path and Trail.  You walk a path and follow a trail.  You walk a path with head up, arms swinging, breathing easy.  You move along a trail watching where your feet go, sweating as you climb, swiping spider webs and mosquitoes.

These two words bring home to me the importance of choosing exactly the right word in writing.  What a difference it makes if you pause a moment to seek out just the right thing to say, rather than taking the easy way out and using a word that’s okay, but not perfect.  Or, god forbid, a cliché.  There are many times in writing where I have stumbled on the wrong word, not able to pluck out of the air the exact one I want.  I highlight that word and keep going, not wanting to lose the flow of writing.  But then I go back to that spot of color on the page and worry it until the right word appears, fully formed and perfect.

And then I choose to hike that trail.