Hey Chapter Two, where are you?

I’m sitting at a small table in The Backstory Cafe this morning. I have a stack of notecards to my left, a perfectly brewed mocha to my right, and my laptop squarely in the center. My computer screen should read, “Chapter Two,” but I’ve been sitting here for an hour already and the page remains blank.

I close my eyes and hope for a sign that will tell me what to type. I have an outline, notes about this chapter’s story, and desert landscape pictures for inspiration. But my page is still blank.

The exact same set-up in my own home office usually provides the perfect preparation for success, but after two days of blinking at a blank screen, I packed up my gear. I thought a trip to The Backstory Cafe would give me the push I needed to finally start typing away at this chapter.

But I’m scared.

What if all the planning I’ve done doesn’t hold the story together? What if the research I’ve done wasn’t thorough enough to create a “real” world? What if the characters I’ve created don’t sparkle on the page?

No, wait. The characters would never let me down.

I look around the crowded cafe and lock eyes with Jonni, manager of this fictional little coffee shop/blog and master of the gleaming silver espresso machine near her on the counter. She gives me a thumbs up and a smile full of teeth. I smile back, feeling guilty about my blank computer screen. She’s been so excited to be part of this novel project, her first big role.

I look away from Jonni and my eyes rest on the table nearest her. Cage, the handsomely rugged cowboy of the story and the man I plan as Jonni’s true love, sits alone fidgeting with the napkin dispenser. He looks up at me and shrugs, knowing he doesn’t even enter the story until chapter four. He looks patient, but I can’t keep him waiting forever. If I don’t get him something to do soon he’ll get bored, wander off maybe.

I catch movement across the room. It’s Brinna Tennfjord, the main character. She’d been sitting down when I first came in, watching me through her side-vision, pretending not to see me, but now she’s out of her chair and pacing the floor. She glances my way, then back to the wall quickly. I know she doesn’t want to pressure me, that isn’t her nature, but I’m making her nervous. She’s got a story to tell, a long complicated tale. It’s almost bursting from her lips, but it’s up to me to type those words.

Tell the story, I say to myself. Forget about the writing and just tell her story. You can always rewrite it later, right? Right. I flex my fingers and turn back to my laptop. They are waiting, all of them. How can I just sit here?

I take a deep breath and words begin to fill my page.

It’s First Draft Time!

“Terry.”

No reaction.

“Petra.”

No reaction. I shift my stance and speak to her back again. This time I present the option as a question.

“Jonni?”

The healthy yoga-bodied barista here at The Backstory Cafe finally turns to me with a nod of approval. We’ve been working on renaming her for months, and I’ve already started typing away at the new novel project where Jonni plays a key role. We have to get this sorted out today, so I’m glad she’s made a decision. Jonni nearly sprints to the counter that separates us. She’s excited to be one of the main characters this time around.

“So what are you going to name the coffee shop?” she asks. Jonni sets her elbows on the counter and leans forward. To anyone else it would look like she and I are sharing a secret, but her attention isn’t on me. I look over my left shoulder at the handsome dark-haired man sitting at the end of Jonni’s gaze. He looks rugged enough to be a real cowboy, but his clothes are cut with the lines of a designer label. He looks like a well-dressed rancher who models on the side. Jonni nearly whimpers as he brings his coffee cup to his lips.

“You like?”

“Who is he?” She breathes the words. “Is he in your next book?” Jonni can’t get the right visual angle she wants, craning from one side of me to the other, finally reaching out and moving me over a few inches. I smile at Jonni, but her eyes never leave the cowboy-esquire man to meet mine.

“Kissing Deer.”

Jonni almost says something back, but turns to me suddenly instead. “Kissing Deer?”

“The coffee shop,” I say. “It’s named after a petroglyph from the Deer Valley site.” I try not to let my mouth break into a smile. Jonni sags into a sigh and gives me a pouty smirk. The persistent smile overcomes me as I give Jonni the news, “He’s for you.” I bob my head in the direction of the handsome stranger and watch Jonni’s eyes open wide.

“Me?”

“You.”

“I get a love interest?” She claps her hands together quickly and quietly.

“A fiesty one,” I add with a nod. Jonni looks from the GQ cowboy to me and back again. “His name is Cage. I was working on your storyline yesterday and he showed up, unnanounced.”

“Cage,” she says testing the flavor of the name. Jonni turns to me and I finally have her complete attention again. “I know just how to thank you.” She reaches down to retrieve a small wood-framed chalkboard from the shelf beneath her. Jonni presents it to me like she’s selling a valuable item at auction, complete with model-like hand swoop. “A little something I’ve been working on.”

Jonni has created a small list of the current bakery selections in her artistic script, with a border of colorful symbols that remind me of the rock art I’ve been researching. I reach out to touch a square-headed stick figure holding two wavy lines. He’s a ceremonial dancer, I can tell. Straight sticks in his hands would have meant weapons, for hunting. “It’s perfect,” I tell her.

After Jonni makes me a double-shot mocha and convinces me I need a pumpkin muffin to go along with it, I settle myself at my favorite sofa in the back to get some work done. I’m writing another main character’s story today, Brinna Tennfjord. Yes, she has an odd name, too. She grew up as Sabrina, but changed her name long ago in an attempt to sound more exotic. Little did Brinna know that she would grow up to marry a man from the giant Norweigan population of Seattle, complete with a last name so unusual, it borders on unpronounceable.

But that’s typical for Brinna. She’s always tripping over the complications she creates. Her husband Eric finds this quirk charming, at least he did until they moved to Cave Creek where Brinna’s observations of the new town are in such stark opposite to his own that they butt heads. Not wanting to tread on his idyllic view of Cave Creek, Brinna keeps her growing suspicions to herself and seeks out an ally in town who will listen to her, which is how she and Jonni come to be friends.

The plot swirls on my notebook page and I decide to take a break. I reach for a sip of my coffee and I look out the window to the Arizona sunshine.

“He. Has. A. Motorcycle.” Each of Jonni’s words are set apart with a full pause. She stands near my table fanning herself with a small paper napkin. “That red one,” she points. I scan the parking lot until I see it, too.

“Brinna knows him,” I say turning to Jonni. “You’ll like her.”

If You Watched Me Write a Short Story, This is What You’d See:

I purse my lips at the blank spiral notebook page in front of me. I planned this block of writing time at The Backstory Cafe today so I could begin another short story, but so far all I have accomplished is munching down a chocolate chip muffin.

I look around the crowded room and study the faces I see, some familiar, some new. All look appealing in a “new short story material” kind of way, but I’m drawn to a woman holding a newspaper and choose study her more closely.

She’s in her thirties, I would guess, and the bag at her feet suggests youngish kids at home (big enough to carry games and books, but too small to be a diaper bag). Her back is stick-straight one moment, hunched over the text another. I watch as she zeros in on attractive-sounding ads, only to dismiss them and straighten up again.

She’s well dressed, in the designer daywear of a housewife who doesn’t need to work, and the ring on her wedding finger gleams. Why is she looking for a job, I wonder? I watch as she checks her ringing cell phone and ignores a call.  She’s avoiding someone I decide, and the story begins.

The process of writing a short story is always the same for me. An idea forms, perhaps from something I’ve overheard or witnessed, and I work at it until the story is complete. This mystery woman looks like she desperately needs a job, but doesn’t need money. I’m intrigued. I want to know more. I know this is a good place to begin.

I  finally pick up my pen and add some words to my page, mostly a description of the woman I’ve been spying on, complete with details about her family and where she lives. As I write, the woman collects her newspaper and joins me at my table. She sits down in a chair and her body sags with the weight of an emotional burden, but she has a wry smile and a gleam in her eye.

“Rough day,” I ask?

She smiles back, and I sense she has something funny to share. Introductions are made, I open my laptop, and I ask her to tell me her story.

Her name is Kay McNeal, she says, and she needs to find a job so she can avoid the PTA bully, Lenora French, who will surely be calling for another favor soon. Kay recently applied for a job at a local candle boutique, but it ended in disaster.

Kay leans forward and rolls her eyes, “You should have been there,” she says laughing. “I started the day just fine, excited to start spending my new employee discount, but I ended up on the sidewalk with an epi pen sticking out of my arm.” I listen closely as she tells me about the “too-young-to-be-my-boss” manager and the panic she felt filling out her application. She tells me about giant splotches appearing on her face and hands, and the fireman with the blue eyes. I will my fingers to keep up as Kay fills me in on all of the details.

At around five pages, my newspaper holding friend Kay smiles at me and tips her head. She is finished, she signals.

I reread my first draft and search for the good stuff, trying to identify the deeper story here. Kay is battling with her self-esteem, I decide, even in this funny tale. I tinker with the first line, the transition between the last two paragraphs, and wonder if Kay should tell this story, or if I should I step in as the narrator.

I have Kay begin again so I can write the next draft. When she is done, I adjust the tone based on Kay’s motivation, realize Kay is the best person to tell the story, and eliminate two whole paragraphs. Then Kay begins again while I layer in a secondary story line that just occurred to me. And again so I can clean up the dialogue.

Now again (yes AGAIN) with a better opening sentence. And again with fewer words. And again just to check for flow. This rewriting period can last for hours or days or weeks, but with each new draft the story improves, and I’m happy to keep working on it. Then, at some point, I’m done. No real way to describe it, but I know the story is ready, and I stop making changes.

I finally stand up and walk over to my new friend Kay. She reaches out to shake my hand, and I hug her back instead. I’m ready to say goodbye, and so is she. Kay smiles as she walks over to the long farm table that runs down the right side of the cafe. She joins the other stories waiting to be published. I wave to them all and assure them I’ll find the right editor for each.

Then I return to my own chair, and face another blank page.