a clean well-lighted place

So here I am, sitting in my little nook at Java Point, hoping that by avoiding the likes of Starbucks and other more “open” establishments, I don’t look like a pretentious writer wannabe with a laptop and no ideas.  And while this small loft above the shop offers me momentary distractions with a view of Main Street and conversations about waves, I am well hidden behind the used surfboards and feel, most importantly, unexposed, in more ways than one.  I suppose a deconstructionist would say that by uttering these thoughts, I am the phony that I speak of, the person who wants to be something and clearly is not (Peter Keating from The Fountainhead comes to mind).  I mean, who am I to think that I have something to write, that my ideas are valid and worthy of being documented, let alone read by others?  Would this time be better spent cleaning the house or working in the garden?  Perhaps. These are things that need to get done.  But too often I neglect the non-quantifiable parts of my life:  the intangibles that feed my soul and my mind, things that actually matter. Sitting in front of the computer with headphones on quiets my mind, slowing me down enough to get reacquainted with my thoughts, and if by chance I can get a few words out, I am thrilled . So that’s my justification for taking time away from wiping down countertops and folding laundry to just sit here in a clean, well-lighted place in hopes of writing a sentence I’ve never written before.