Jury duty. It happens.
It’s a responsibility I take seriously—although I haven’t yet had to draw the line at the kind of cases that would demand my excusing myself. And, as I waited to be called for a panel, another kind of learning.
A woman was sitting within my sightline. Young. Serious. Had her little laptop open, writing something. I watched her, trying to get a clue from the pages’ formatting what it was she was working on. I had brought my laptop, thinking that I would use any lengthy delay to do what the young woman was doing.
A page is impossible for me to tackle when I know I’ll soon be interrupted. But there was something more significant for me in the hesitation. I found that I couldn’t devalue the act by carrying it out in a public place. Writing in that court waiting room would no longer have been the magnificent act that demands everything of me; it would have been expediency.
What we do in private, and what we share with the world are two very different things.
For some, writing is extroversion. Or concentration so perfect that the world goes away. Not for me.
Having 15 minutes is not like having 15 wonderful ones. One does not make love on a street corner. The world is too present. The energy of passersby and higher skies do not make the act richer. I am the writer of the closed room and drawn curtain. We love in the light, but we love apart from all, in magnificent isolation.
Was it insincere, what the young woman was doing; an affectation? Of course not. Is there a right way to work, a right environment? Of course not. She did what she was comfortable doing. And so do I. I will never be a writer who works in cafes and coffeehouses and waiting rooms. My public displays of affection will be confined to kisses and handholding. The rest is a series of acts in a most personal of spaces. This writing is mine. Until it’s ready to fly free to a heart other than mine.