Scene from a tapas restaurant

Who knew irony was on the menu?

[Ext: A small storefront restaurant on a side street in Northwest Portland, Oregon. Large windows front a tree-lined sidewalk. A long, communal table runs down the center of the room surrounded by smaller tables of various sizes. The restaurant is about three-fourths full, a little noisy though not enough to drown out normal conversational tones. Two writers in mid-discussion sit across from each other at a two-top along the wall. They have ordered some beers and four tapas plates: two potato dishes, bread and tomato spread and a nice salad to share.]

Writer 1: I guess it comes down to “why does one write?” ya know?

Writer 2: [Piles some salad on his plate and takes his share of the eight Nuestra Bravas (layers of milk-marinated roasted potatoes topped with Brava sauce).] Yeah, I write because I enjoy writing. It relaxes me, helps me sort through things. (Takes a bite of the bread with tomato spread) Hmmm. Nice. Like bruschetta, kinda.

Writer 1: Nice! Yeah, I get you. I write for the same reasons but I also write because I want to leave something behind, I guess. I want to write big, magnificent, lasting stories that change people. I don’t believe in good guys and bad guys, ya know? I believe that people are flawed, some more than others. I want to explore those flaws, see what makes someone tick. Draw empathy from readers because they see something in a character that they wouldn’t normally see. Right? I love the language in a story, too. I want the writing to be not simply accessible narrative. I want the stories to be as close to poetry as I can make them. I want the reader to be able to visualize place and setting—to smell the air—in the story; to be delighted with the prose. Whether or not I can pull this off, is another question, of course. But that’s what I am trying to do.

Writer 2: [Eyeing the last Nuestra Brava] You gonna eat that?