BTLN Chapter 5 (Patreon)

(Mild chapter spoilers here, so you might want to read after the chapter.)

Some chapters come easy...this wasn't one of them. That can be sort of the way when writing passages that are necessary but not always the most exciting. (Wow, I'm really selling this chapter, aren't I?) What I mean is, the beginning of the chapter includes necessary stuff, but wasn't a joy to write. It's housekeeping, in a sense. It's why most writers shake their heads when people talk about how they couldn't write because "the muse wasn't there."

The muse is rarely there. The muse is really busy and doesn't have time to hang out all day every day. Which means sometimes, often really, you have to write whether you feel like it or not, or whether you're excited about it or not. The nice part is, readers generally can't tell the difference, because the same work and care goes into it either way. The result is often the same. It's just the behind the scenes working part where I'm glaring at my keyboard is much different.

I will tell you what is fun--asking friends for stories that encapsulate the weird and often surreal landscape that is the Waffle House. I had many stories, but none of them sounded right or went on too long. I needed something snappy. I ended up blending together two of them--one from my friend Jeni Wallace (my old roommate from my MFA and an excellent writer herself) about a Waffle House she used to go to with her grandmother where there was always a monopoly game going on. Like, truckers and such would stop there on their travels just to join in.

The other story I picked was from my friend, Janette Batista (another writer and a good friend--the writes YA and urban fantasy and such and talks through plots with me often), who sort of has a cameo as the sleeping woman. She witnessed One Sock in all of his glory, along with the cafe shouting out advice, and she missed the end of it all because she fell asleep.

If you've ever been in a Waffle House, none of this will sound even slightly weird. One of the reasons I picked these two stories to blend was not just because they sort of explained the spirit of the Waffle House, but also the odd sort of bonding that happens. In a Waffle House you understand that the world can be a hard, terrible place, and that a cup of coffee can go a long way. 

Sidenote--after hurricane Katrina I was stuck in this small town in Mississippi and had to commute to writing workshops in New Orleans on Mondays--a two hour trip both ways. One time I was heading back with my husband and we stopped at a Waffle House. It was probably three in the morning, and we were seated and given silverware by a child, about ten years old, I think. My fork was dirty and I honestly didn't have the heart to say a single word. I also once had the exact same conversation with a war veteran three times--always the same on his part, though our answers varied--where he'd turn around in his booth, tell my friend that he liked his tattoos, and then launch into stories of when he was a POW. When he was done, he'd turn back around, and then a few minutes later, he'd start again. And we'd smile and nod and respond like we hadn't had this conversation already, because that's just what you do in a Waffle House.

You step up. You smile, nod, and don't bat an eye at anything going on. (Though if anyone throws anything, you should duck.) You drink your coffee and chat with the staff. Then you leave and think about what a strange world it is we live in.

Because of that, this chapter was almost named after the Cat Stevens' song, Wild World, but I ultimately went with something I thought might fit better. As I type this, I'm now wondering if the Wild World one was better...

Anyway, if you've been to a Waffle House, feel free to drop your story in the comments.

-Lish