We've all been there. But most of us wouldn't identify with the term "writer". Very few people, when you ask them what they do say "I'm a writer".
When they do we are in awe. How cool, how sexy. Writers are inherently interesting and mysterious. We toil away in our cubicles and some lucky bastard gets a god-given gift they can make money out of. We are jealous. We are impressed.
We also have a stereotype in our head of a what a "real" writer is like. For example, a tall blonde with implants and the name "Bunny" - probably won't get taken seriously as a writer. It's not fair but we all do it.
For the first time in her life today, Poker Chick felt what it is like on the other side. Picture this:
FADE IN.
INT. STARBUCKS - DAY
A young woman, POKER CHICK, is waiting in a long line for her coffee. It is a rainy weekend in New York, the kind where people forego errands and stay in their apartments, deliciously reading their Sunday Times over the course of an afternoon.
In the local Starbucks, optimists buzz about in their jewelery and Sunday best, pretending the rain can never affect the tone of the day. POKER CHICK is not one of them. She has no ironed clothes, no fancy shoes. She has not even dried her hair. She has something important to do. She is dressed in the only clothes that could be respected as authentic, ripped jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, and canvas sneakers.
She observes the man standing in front of her. He is big and very masculine in his appearance.
FADE OUT.
INT. STARBUCKS - DAY
A young woman, POKER CHICK, is waiting in a long line for her coffee. It is a rainy weekend in New York, the kind where people forego errands and stay in their apartments, deliciously reading their Sunday Times over the course of an afternoon.
In the local Starbucks, optimists buzz about in their jewelery and Sunday best, pretending the rain can never affect the tone of the day. POKER CHICK is not one of them. She has no ironed clothes, no fancy shoes. She has not even dried her hair. She has something important to do. She is dressed in the only clothes that could be respected as authentic, ripped jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, and canvas sneakers.
She observes the man standing in front of her. He is big and very masculine in his appearance.
MACHO MAN
I'd like a grande green tea latte, please. Soy milk, no foam. And a splash guard with that.
BARISTA
Excuse me?
BARISTA
Yes sir. That'll be $6.95. Would you like some oatmeal with that?
POKER CHICK grins to herself in smug delight as her coffee is ready. Her task ahead is not for the faint of heart and a latte won't cut it. She grabs it along with her New York bagel and heads out in the rain with nothing but a hood for protection.
Back inside, she sits in solitary, looking at a small notebook full of scribbles that are her genius at work. She guards this carefully, despite the fact that it is illegible, lest someone steal her obviously brilliant ideas. She makes a mental note to talk to her agent about trademarking the script. She makes another mental note to go find an agent. She opens her apple computer and takes a sip of coffee.
She is a writer.
I'd like a grande green tea latte, please. Soy milk, no foam. And a splash guard with that.
BARISTA
Excuse me?
MACHO MAN repeats himself unapologetically.
BARISTA
Yes sir. That'll be $6.95. Would you like some oatmeal with that?
POKER CHICK grins to herself in smug delight as her coffee is ready. Her task ahead is not for the faint of heart and a latte won't cut it. She grabs it along with her New York bagel and heads out in the rain with nothing but a hood for protection.
Back inside, she sits in solitary, looking at a small notebook full of scribbles that are her genius at work. She guards this carefully, despite the fact that it is illegible, lest someone steal her obviously brilliant ideas. She makes a mental note to talk to her agent about trademarking the script. She makes another mental note to go find an agent. She opens her apple computer and takes a sip of coffee.
She is a writer.
