Okay so when did writing become a spectator sport? It may only be a Los Angeles trend, but I suspect with the proliferation of Starbucks nationwide it is happening more and more around the country. The image of a lonely writer in a smoke filled back room slaving away on an IBM selectric typewiter, writing that screen play may be only valid in Film Noir documentaries now days. We know the IBM selectric has left the building, perhaps the lonely craft of writing has as well. I chalk it up to the "reality mentality". Life is only real when it is being filmed or televised. We have conversations on FaceBook and watch other humans act out their lives on Reality shows rather than experience either for ourselves.

I know different writers have different methods. Some write in the early morning, some in the late night. Some have to have complete silence, some have to have the television on. Most set up a regular time to write on a regular schedule. But until now I didn't know a writer needed an audience. To most the writers I know it is a job. They like their job, but set up definite hours for working and rest to fill up so they can write some more.

Last Saturday I was up and out earlier than normal. I went to my Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf to get a cup of Joe. When I walked in there were three patrons furiously working on laptops. They looked like they were from central casting auditioning to play the part of William Goldman or Stephen King.

One lady particularly stood out. She sat at the bar by the cash register. This makes her impossible to over look as you order. In her late mid to late 50's, she wore no makeup and came off as sort of plain and bookish, rather than glamorous, mothering or provocative. (Not that any of those looks are good or bad in and of themselves) The point is she was going for that particular literary look.

She was dressed like this was a costume party, not just a Saturday morning throw on. Her newsboy cap was backwards on her head. She wore white shirt with a loose neck tie, the knot hanging on her breast; Sporting black toreador pants with black suede mary -jane shoes and white socks. There was a yellow pencil stuck behind her ear. A large three ring binder covered in sticky notes was spread out on the counter next to her. This "desk" was taking up three places to insure no one else could sit at this spot in the store. She was not smoking but could have been. I think she was eating M&M's from a small bowl. She chewed very fast and the quick continuous hand motions from the bowl to her mouth mimicked the motions of a chain smoker.

At first she looked to be completely engrossed in her work. She mouthed the words as she read and sometimes even whispered them softly, giggling to herself like she was acting out the parts and listening in the same sentence. I then noticed something wrong with the scene. She worked at the text only when she knew someone was watching her. She would work for awhile and then with great skill and subtlety, check out the room to see who was watching. She caught me a couple of times. When she had an audience she would feverishly chain smoke her M&M's and mouth her words working at a pace that would exhaust a mere human. Her approach to writing seemed to be that of a plate spinner. There were not enough hours in the day or coffee in the cup to finish this work, as she write, marked and mumbling at a Meth addict's pace. When no one was looking she starred into the shelf full of packaged coffee beans. It sometimes took a new patron to come in and order coffee to break that stare and get her to focus again feverishly on the text.

Now she may be one of the best writers in Los Angeles. Her work may have won Emmys and Pulitzers but it sure looked like a Saturday morning kids show to me. Shouldn't a writer's work speak for itself. Is the process of writing now so important that we must have people watching us do it. Perhaps there is no project to speak for itself. Perhaps this is just street theatre and the process of being watched is the reward. It seemed all too odd to me.

I came home to my desk top computer to rant in silence and unnoticed. Call me a traditionalist.
As you were,
Jay