Megan Stielstra's Blog

At Ritual café in San Franciso. I was trying to finish my story about Indiana Jones, but instead I’m people watching. It’s a very crowded place, tons of tables sardine-packed together so you can see everybody’s business: the girl with a stack of physics textbooks, the guy with black-rimmed glasses, the guy in cowboy boots, lots of thrift-store T-shirts, lots of Threadless, lots of tattoos, dark make-up, hair messed just so. The Mission District equivalent of Filter in Wicker Park. I listened to the couple to my right talk for a while--ten bucks it was a second date, maybe third. "I like your haircut," she said. "It makes you look young." "Thanks," he said. "I FEEL young." Neither of these two was older than twenty-five, FYI, so, instead of puking all over them, I put on my headphones: Keren Ann's Right Here and Right Now, from Not Going Anywhere. I look around again and see people talking, their lips are moving but I can't hear them, can only hear Keren Ann singing, her voice very calm, simple piano until the flute solo, and then there's a horn section and then a full orchestra, and then--my favorite part--a children's choir joins in at the end. With a harpsichord. It soothes the whole moment, like one second we're in this high-energy uber-hipster fast-paced cafe with its coffee coffee coffee, white plastic MACS on every table, conversation competing loudly with the clanging of cups and banging, busy music (I don't know what's playing, but somebody who'd probably site The Ramones as a primary influence) and the next second it's easy, peaceful, a total one-eighty mood shift.

The guy on my left has this a high-tech etch-a-sketch-looking thing connected to his laptop, and is drawing pictures of bookshelves. There’s a guy sitting behind me that, I think, is looking over my shoulder as I type this. I can only see his shoes—black Diesel sneakers with red trim—but I feel his eyes on my screen. “Hello, you,” I should tell him. “You with the black Diesels. It’s okay that you’re reading over my shoulder as I type, because I was staring over the shoulder of the guy with the Etch-a-sketch drawing bookshelves. This is what we do when we work in cafes—we pay attention to anyone’s stuff but our own. This is because we are a culture of procrastination, of A.D.D. I know this, because I am supposed to be working on my story about Indiana Jones right now and instead I am talking to you. You just shifted in your seat, crossing your sneakers at the ankles. Is that because you’re reading this and I’m making you uncomfortable? What would you do if I turned around right now? If I said, ‘Hello there. I’m Megan. Would you like me to suggest some possible writing assignments for you so you can write your own story instead of reading mine? It’s really no problem—I’m a writing teacher, and I do this for a living. If you like, I’m presenting at a conference at the California College of Art tomorrow where I’ll be discussing story development. Maybe you should come. It might be helpful. But what probably won’t be helpful is my story about Indiana Jones, which is my story, not yours, and I’m just trying some stuff out right now so I’m really not comfortable with anyone reading it quite yet, especially a guy I don’t know. Who’s wearing Diesel sneakers. Not that I have anything against Diesel, but if some random guy is going to read my stuff without permission I’d really prefer Chuck Taylor’s. Just like the guy drawing the bookshelves might rather I was a redhead. You know?’”