In an electrifying attempt to defib the flat line that is my life, I mustered up the courage to start a writing club on Meetup.
A noble quest for one who enjoys putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard.
It was only after I had given the mean machine my credit card number, when a miniscule voice in my head – posing as my equally tiny self esteem – graciously pointed out a numerical observation.
What if, just what if, absolutely no one out of the hundreds of thousands of inhabitants of this city joins this group?
My tiny, lonely avatar stared back at me with sadness in her eyes. Great. I had ruined “cyber me’s” life as well.
I reached for my trusty bag of comfort sugar and started to tilt my head back and open my mouth wide, when the welcoming “ding” from my Mac rang out.
A ding I was desperate to hear.
It was the glorious sound of online acceptance.
And with that ding came many more, and by many I mean 13.
Now that I had successfully penetrated the online world of people, I needed to materialize an actual meet up date. I channeled my inner Geppetto and willed for these 13 avatars to come to life.
Ok, well it wasn’t like that.
Typical me, I started to obsess about our first rendez-vous and how perfect it would be. I looked online for inspiration – only to find horrible stories of people that had been butchered, raped, or kidnapped at these online organized anonymous encounters.
Generic coffee shop it is then.
Finally, the big day arrived. And I was so ready. Rummaging through my closet, I reached for what would later be described as the most pretentious outfit ever. Mistake number one.
Apparently my fellow writers don’t enjoy a real life Blair Waldorf in the flesh. I guess I should have went with a Dan outfit instead.
If only my night of faux pas had ended there…if only.
I arrived at my local Starbucks with my scribbled A4 sheet of paper identifying the club. Sadly, I wasn’t the first to arrive. I was greeted by an over eager 20 something male. He was too eager. He asked me what I did and started to financially size me up. There was something off, and I couldn’t quite put my impeccably manicured finger on it.
A few minutes later, an average looking couple found their way to our table and started with ” We’re already successful self published authors.”
I was in the midst of Amazon royalty.
Was I even allowed to look them in the eye, let alone enjoy a hot beverage with them? After all, I just write… a blog.
Why couldn’t I have my pencil colored portfolio with me, or at least these?
Awakening me from my reverie where I practiced bowing and curtsies, two of my good friends decided they too, would join. As soon as they pulled up a chair – inquisitive guy number one started to also pursue his own match of twenty questions.
A few rapid minutes later, the monarchs started to sniff out my noobish attitude. They were on to the blatant fact that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. Perhaps I over sold on the site?
Conversation was getting stale and even the question guy was running out financial indicative queries he could ask.
And then it happened.
My Clint Eastwood moment.
He casually strolled into Starbucks, everyone sat and stared at his grandeur. He was over 6 feet with streaks of white through his grey mane. He slowly pushed his glasses further up his nose then asked in a deep voice, “Is this the meet up for writers and bloggers?”
I nodded slowly.
Obviously awe struck at this man’s brilliant aura, one of my friends decided to take over. “So, what are you writing about?”
“I’ve witnessed things I can’t talk about. Terrible. Horrible. Things. Death, torture, drugs – you name it.”
Jaws dropped in unison – every single one, even the baristas’ couldn’t help it.
I needed a cigarette and I don’t smoke.
“Tell us more,” someone muttered.
“I can’t,” he replied stoically.
“I knew you couldn’t handle it,” he spat out as he watched, albeit disgustedly, at our amateur awe.
He tossed his dirty napkin at us – and with that, he was gone.
It seemed like a good time to end the session.
Don’t know if I’ll do another.
But before I left, like the plot of every mystery novel, the story of the inquisitor unraveled. Turns out he was a real estate agent who meet-up hopped to grab business. I discovered this when he confidently, and by confidently I mean shamelessly, pressed his business card into my palm.
Sweet Dreams World