EVERYTHING IS FICTION

Some years ago while sitting in a coffee shop in Taos, New Mexico, writing a book I did not know would be published, a man and his wife walked by my table.  I recognized him as a well-known famous writer of books and screen plays, yet I was so completely absorbed in my laptop screen, lost in a story, that I did not completely take in his celebrity.  If I had, I might have been intimidated or a bit shy.

"Are you writing fiction or non-fiction,” this celebrity person asked.  Without thinking, I replied, "Isn't everything fiction?”  Surprised by my answer, he turned to his wife and I heard him say, "God, he's right. He’s right."  I went back to typing the flow of words emerging from somewhere within me.  For a moment, I was impressed by myself for coming up with that most clever response.

Ten years later, today, I was sitting in a coffee shop in Portland, Oregon, writing what seems to be transitioning into a book.  A man with a beard, and appearing to be a street person, or at least fitting my stereotype of a street person, sat down on the stool beside me. The smell of a cigarette smoker filled the space around me. 

“Hi,” he said, looking in my direction.  I noticed my quiet judgment of him, and at first, felt disturbed.  He sensed my thought.  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to disturb you," he said. “Go on and do your work.”  Hearing him, I paused and stopped typing.  I turned to face him directly. “You know, people are more important than machines.  I’m sorry.  I’m glad you are here and we can talk together.”  He smiled, revealing some missing teeth.  “Today is my birthday,” he replied. “I’m 50 today, and Starbucks has given me a free coffee drink, pastry and anything I want today.” He paused.  “Are you a writer?" he asked.

"Yes, sometimes I write."

"Are you writing fiction or non-fiction?" he asked, as though he knew the history of that question.  "Isn't everything fiction?" I replied.  We stared at each other.  His facial expression gradually transformed into a knowing smile, as though he knew the truth of those words.  I no longer felt a distance between us. He knew.  I knew.  “Thank you,” he said, then stood up, excused himself and went outside for a smoke.