Day 15: Writers in a Bar

Maria and Judy outside the writerly Edinburgh Castle Pub

"Talk to me," Maria said, walking up to me at the bar. "I'm just standing around awkwardly." She may have said "too", though she needn't have: My own awkward standing was anything but subtle.

I had already introduced myself as I sat down at a table with her and several other people who were, I presumed by the paper plates of pizza they each had in front of them, also at the Edinburgh Castle Pub at 6 pm on a Saturday in order to volunteer with LitQuake, the SF literary festival that doesn't actually start until October. I was worried no one would be able to tell that I was such a volunteer, because (vegan that I am), I was not holding a plate of pizza. I almost got an empty plate just to make sure someone would talk to me. Instead I sat down with Maria and her friend Judy and a few other people, and listened to them talk about beer. I myself contributed about three words.

Then it was time for the readings! You can't gather a group of people excited to volunteer for a literary festival and not expect at least 70% of them to be writers eager to share their own work. We had been instructed to bring a short piece if we wanted to have a shot at it, and names would go in a hat. Maria was the first one picked. (I was piece-less, being that other, non-eager species of writer).

She read an excerpt from a novel she's working on, a scene about a carnival Wall of Death. I found it completely engaging, which is very impressive given the insufficient PA system and the dim dull hum of the bar.

It was after all this that she found me being awkward. We commandeered some bar stools and talked about life as a freelancer. She showed me a photo of her cat. I told her about my projects, both this one and the master's thesis. She told me about a writing tip she'd learned: Do your own work first, while you're still fresh and creative. Leave for later the stuff that pays the bills.

I left for the evening with her business card, always a voyeuristic treasure when it comes from someone similarly self-employed ("Writing and editing services," hers reads), and a calendar full of activities where I'll hopefully meet Maria again, and other people like her.  I spent more time on the BART/walk to the bar than I did actually being there, but as I wound my way through the crowds and cable cars and glittering neon of Powell Street at night, the city made sure I didn't mind.