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.

Bark If You Like Chocolate

I am dog-frisked as I enter The Backstory Cafe today. Indy, the stray pooch who has appointed herself hostess around here, sniffs every inch of me from the knee down, paying special attention to the scent of my left flip-flop. I’ve gotten used to the pudgy cinnamon colored chow’s greeting and since her arrival earlier this summer, Indy has won me over with her uncanny ability to please my palate. Luckily I’ve started exercising more and feel less guilty about indulging in Indy’s scrumptious selections.

Indy walks me to the large bakery counter, then sits beside me. With the grace of a much more athletic dog, she hoists her body upright and sets a paw on the glass nearest the third shelf, center.

“You’re right,” I tell her. “I should go with the chocolate croissant.” Although anything in the case of delicious treats would have suited me, Indy’s suggestion is suddenly the exact thing I want to snack on.

Indy sits by my side again, and with a sharp bark to the ceiling, brings our barista Jane from the back room. Mostly deaf, this cafe canine has no idea how loud she is. Indy is so much better than a little silver service bell.

“You’ll need a latte to wash it down,” Jane tells me as she plates up the delicious looking pastry. I can tell she wants to show off something new she and Indy have worked on. She nods to Indy, a silent command conveyed. Without further instruction, Indy walks to the selection of cups on the counter, passes the insulated cups, and stops in front of the clear plastic tumblers. “Iced,” Jane interprets. They both watch my reaction.

“Perfect,” I tell them.

I do a quick calorie calculation as Jane works her magic with the big coffee machine. Walking a few times a week won’t be enough if I let Indy pick out a treat for me every time I come in here, so I’m glad my latest research project will help me keep my waistline in check. I’m studying local petroglyphs and will be hiking to sites in the Sedona caves soon. I take out my notebook and look over my notes from yesterday.

Jane sets the chilly coffee drink on the counter between us, closer to herself than me. I sense she isn’t ready to hand it over, she wants to talk first. I smile and wait for my friend to begin. “Indy is an actress,” Jane says. “I swear.”

I blink.

“I don’t know who trained her, but I think she used to be one of those dogs in Hollywood movies, I’m sure of it.”

“Okay,” I say. “That’s cool.” I reach for the latte, but Jane leans in to tell me more.

“She doesn’t even need to hear me to understand what I want. Maybe it’s even better than just training, maybe she’s psychic.”

“A psychic dog?”

“Yes,” Jane says nodding. Her face is serious. “Wouldn’t that be something in your next book?”

Ahhh. Jane wants to bring Indy along for the next novel project. “She doesn’t have to be psychic,” I say. “Indy is great just the way she is.”

“Great for your book?” Jane hovers over my latte with Indy at her side.

I glance at my notes and then back at the hopeful faces before me. What else can I say?

“She’s in.”