As a writer, I like to pretend that I can create something new, that I can think up something different and unique. But as one of my mentors from high school – Mrs. Dixon – just pointed out to me the other day over an email, nothing ever really is new or unique. There is only a twist in the interpretation, but otherwise pretty much everything has been done.
I stood on the bus this morning as there were no seats. Next to me sat a young couple chatting to a girl friend of theirs who'd just gotten on and was standing next to them. The boyfriend and the standing friend were the connection, the girlfriend an unfamiliar as far as the conversation was concerned.
They spoke about film school and getting jobs, making money and the like. The boyfriend had done work for free three times this year already on films without being paid. "But the experience is good," one chimed in.
And then the two girls asked each other about how they'd met. While the two chatted, the boyfriend looked a little uncomfortable as his past of meeting the friend intertwined with his present, a friendship founded with his previous girlfriend.
I left that world when I boarded the train. As I traveled, I wondered is it right, is it okay for me to listen to a piece of their lives so easily? Shouldn't I have to pay for these little stories.
As the train pulled into Town Hall and I was ready to alight, a man sitting in the lower section smiled at me. Me in my hat smiled back. He raised his eyebrows. I smiled back. A simple friendly communication between two random people.
Where would he go after this? Would he find himself on a lunch break later on in the day and make a mention of the small wordless conversation he had had with a stranger? Or would it just sit in the back of his head, another pointless moment in an equally pointless day.
As I board the ridiculously overcrowded train, a man in a nice pinstripe cotton shirt gets in beside me. It's already too full but he clamors in all the same. His perfectly manicured hands grip the pole in the train cabin as if they were there first.
What's his story? What's everyone's story?
Is this what being a writer is all about?