Some time ago I was working on the subway, with my diary on
my lap as is my practice, and a stranger on the train asked, while I was pausing,
a pen at my lips, deep in thought, “Pardon me, sir,” in a whisper that I
would charitably describe as exaggerated respect. “But are you a writer?”
Hmm, one wonders what my gentle intruder was getting at.
That as an aspiring “writer” herself, she was hoping to make a casual, if not
significant, connection with a more established “writer” in New York City, a place chock-a-block
with “writers,” as in someone whose work she might know. Or someone simply
hitting on me. Or curious. A low-tempo busybody
…
The truth is when I write in my diary on the subway I’m
generally miles away from thinking of myself as a writer. It is not at all
comparable to the example of running in the park, say, and a stranger hails me
as I slow for a drink, or take a walking break, and asks, “Pardon me, sir. Are
you a runner?”
Some truths are regarded to be self-evident. When it comes
to my diary food, though, I don’t necessarily think of myself as “a writer.” It
is, like my running, just what I do. I have no living clue whether it will EVER
be part of what would be considering “my writing.” Snatches of it will end up
as grist for stories, or a novel that I’m working on. This blog. I’ve a “running”
title for something that will include drawings and captions of riders blankly
immersed in social media … http://bit.ly/1P3tp5p
(Don’t miss the forgoing here … You’ll get where I’m going with that.)
True to the blog title, I like to think of my diary time as
part of a healthy diet. Breakfast. Diary Food. Lunch. Five-Mile Run. Dinner.
So how did I respond to the woman on the subway? I am writing, yes. And then I put my head down
and went back to work.
Next: Running for
Your Life: On the Road Again
