Life of the writer

Despite being December, the sun was strong enough that L and I could sit outside the café drinking our chocolat chaud, notebooks and pens ready.

Our first target was a woman, probably retired, with a pink scarf and blue beret. "Go," I said.

We wrote for ten minutes. She wrote about the woman who was signing divorce papers. I made the woman buy a colorful house  after her beige husband died, playing on the love of color.

We read them to each other. Well at least we were different this time. When we'd met Saturday and wrote about dog we saw, we'd both named the pup Max.

The second were two men, one black and one overweight. I created a potential murder where the black man had been hired by the fat man to do away with the fat man's wife. She had them boyhood friends, but we both had one of the characters names Jacques.

Then we saw the mailman. She wrote about how he wanted to see inside the letters he delivered, my piece showed his regrets that postmen no longer have uniforms.

The sky was an incredible blue. A few leaves were still on the tree in the middle of the table.

We set up a date for our next writing session. Living the writer's life like this is the fulfillment of a childhood dream.