series of short stories

writing in a diner

I sat in my familiar booth with my usual cup of coffee with exactly three sugars and a splash of milk.

I tap my feet to the rhythm of the music that's playing in the background harmonizing with the sound of rain pattering on the window. I look out and see two kids jumping in puddles, splashing each other not caring if their clothes are getting soaked.

I look back inside and look around, seeing the regulars sit at the counter, eating the same thing they always order. Familiarity is a comfort for all it seems. I look down at my notebook, pen tapping against the table.

I hear a clock ticking in the distance and wonder how i hear it over all the chatter. I come here to jog ideas, hoping a different setting than my dreary office with a barely functioning light, because I keep forgetting to buy lightbulbs, will help me get new ideas.

My new book is due in a week and I'm no where close to finishing. I know I can ask for an extension.

But I have already.

Two times to be exact.

I know if i ask for a third I'll just be told right forget it and I'll lose this agent and I'll have to scour the internet trying to find a new one. I don't get how authors can do this. Get ten books a year published when I can barely get one a year.

I put down the pen and pick up my mug, bringing it to my lips and sipping, hoping taking a deep breath and a good sip of coffee will somehow generate an idea. I'm literally begging for at least one. I see people coming and going and wondering when I'll be asked if i want anything besides this cup or coffee.

All of a sudden it hits me.

I finally get it.

It's been right in front of me this whole time.

I pick up my pen and turn to a blank page free of cross-outs, scribbles and a badly drawn doodle of a duck and start writing

I sat in my familiar booth with my usual cup of coffee with exactly three sugars and a splash of milk.