We Have Only Minutes In Commom

Liberty Hall Writers.  The how and why lost back when I stumbled across it.  I was alone, working in silent vacuum, this crazy idea, this reinvention.

Liberty Hall Writers.  A year of writing, sharing, helping.  First eyes, polish eyes. People (real?), tiny icons, funny names.  There’s a gnome, a squirrel, birds, cats, and a one-eyed slimy monster.  Published.  Focused on publishing, helping, writing, sharing work.

Suddenly I am at work with colleagues, nicknamed and unseen.  One wins a contest.  We applaud.  Another gets published; another; again, again, again.  We cheer.  Another stops writing – personal problems.  We sorrow.  We rejoice when grief produces art; we shed a tear to read.

Two visit.  Ah.   We learn one is from across the ocean.  Ah, and so is another.  Another.  America.  England.  Spain.  Africa.  This funny name is a guy.  That odd one’s a gal. Info crumbs scattered among work, but always the work, the art, the striving.

And then we are connected, faces showing, people together.   A little chatter, but rules get us back to work.  We write, hear one suck on a cigarette, one type tickticktick, one sigh, then laugh, then mutter to herself.  We write.

“What time is it?”

He’s in charge of the rules, when to wrap up the chat-time, when to restart work.  We chime in.  “One-ten” says Seattle.  “Four-ten,” says Minnesota.   We snicker, scattered across the globe in our own time and space.

“Forget the hour.  We have only minutes in common.”

We all laugh, then get back to work.