First published in the Tri Town Transcript Nov 16, 2018
By Esther C. Baird
Like many people, I need to work in a specific context. When I’m working in my church role, I prefer to be at my office on-site where I have my big heavy books, multiple Bible translations, a small space heater and almost no cell service. It’s quiet (mostly) and I can get work done that requires deep thinking or lots of space to lay out multiple books and papers.
But when I do my creative writing, I need to be in loud spaces with lots of bustling, since, as all writers know, writing is primarily the art of staring off into space and … not writing. For that laborious task I prefer Panera, Whole Foods and Starbucks. In fact I am currently at Starbucks typing this just after a massive all-property fire evacuation that created a backup of chaos and customers in a holiday-colored tizzy. It’s the perfect distraction!
This summer I wrote a Christmas devotional book, which, since you asked, is titled, “Exodus to Advent: God’s Christmas Plan for You, and For Me.” It’s on Amazon, but for you, Regular Readers, (and ok, everyone else too) it will be free for five days starting Nov. 26. During this writing process, which combined my church work and creative writing, I had to close myself in the library near our family camp on Lake George lest I fritter away the days swimming and frolicking. I forced myself to churn out page after page with nary a barista in sight, but I did get to know the library bookshelves in great detail, since staring at them, and their slightly strange organizational system, was the only thing I could do … except write.
When I’m attempting to write in public places, I like to listen (eavesdrop?) to the people who have a tiny issue with volume control. If you’re yelling at your business partner or having coffee with the girls, if it’s your confidential employee rant session or a gossip meltdown, here’s a tip: pssst, I can hear you. I’m just an anonymous person, over here, very busily not getting anything done.
So last week when I was sitting in Panera, staring at one sentence that refused to turn into a full page, I couldn’t help but overhear a deeply fascinating conversation from the table directly across from me.
A lady said, “So I told her we’ve been sending her updates to her old address and they get sent back ‘return to sender’ and then she said she hasn’t lived there for eight years.”
You can see why this held my attention with its riveting story arc. She continued, “but then she said she actually was getting our mail.”
The other lady, not facing me, murmured something I couldn’t hear. To which the lady who I could see reacted, “I know! That’s why I emailed her.”
This may not be grabbing your attention quite like it did mine, but I think you’ll enjoy what she said next. “Let’s see, her name is Esther…”
Whoa. I mean there are not many Esthers in this world. Trust me, as a child of the 80s, I had no barrettes with my name on them. No key chains or magnets either. They all went to the Sarahs, Kristys and Andreas of my childhood.
I leaned in a bit since, if my name was in play, maybe the mail drama would get even more exciting than it already was.
She continued, “yes, Esther, um, Esther Baird is her name and…”
Well, color me speechless! OK, not really. I promptly leaned over. “Excuse me! I’m Esther Baird!”
I mean it was me, right? There are other Esther Bairds in the world, but I doubted any of them were on the North Shore being talked about by these women in Panera.
The lady looked at me flustered. “Oh. Hello! We emailed yesterday!”
Sure enough, I recalled an email exchange about misplaced mail, and here I was. I was the customer in question. I was the subject of a conversation by strangers sitting not two feet away from me. I had eavesdropped on my own story!
We laughed and made more connections and guffawed and probably annoyed every single person in the store, except the writers, who I’m sure loved the extreme distraction. I posted my surprise and delight at this turn of events on Facebook. What were the odds? What were the chances? What did it all mean? Everyone agreed it meant something.
I knew what it meant. It meant the best possible morning for a writer. I didn’t actually have to write anything and still managed to walk away with a good story.