Guess I’m Really Not Alone

I’m in a café in a library at the Big Red School on the Hill, playing hookey from work. Hell, I got stories to finish.

There’s a joke in I-town, mostly among writers who know each other, that everyone here is a writer. “Everyone”–townies, professors, undergrads, grad students–is working on some novel or screenplay or somethingorother.

I’m observing a conversation between two people, an English professor and a library media specialist, and an old physics professor who kind of horned in on their conversation.

Two of the three confessed to being writers.