In Silence

I write in silence on Tuesday nights. I joined a Meet Up and we sit for one full hour and write. No one speaks. We can get up and use the john, but that's about it. Some bring laptops; I use my notebook and pen. The physical act of scribbling frees endorphins. Especially if I'm writing and the others are just sitting there blocked. This isn't supposed to be competitive, but who's kidding who?
I'm ripping through pages and you're sitting there sighing in frustration. What's not to like? Except this Tuesday there is a metaphysical group meeting right next to us. They are learning how to read tea leaves. I know this because I spoke to a couple of them before our writing hour began. Just between us, they seemed more interesting than the writers.
After our silent hour we put away our tools and talk to each other. Or not. Some leave, others continue writing. I spoke to a talented illustrator and perused her portfolio. Quite professional. She wants to add writing to her skills and produce children's books. She also rides horses. I can't illustrate or ride horses. Plus she's taller than me. I feel like an imposter. I reread what I wrote, seven pages worth of nonsense. Despair nudges me. I wish I had some Fig Newtons. Brownies can only take you so far.