The view from the very last booth.

A long drive, a country diner, and a writer's first day.

Tuesday, with a little writing and a click of a mouse, I leapt headfirst into a very public effort at making it as a writer.

By Tuesday night, my life had been radically changed.

I was overwhelmed by the support and the enormity of what it means for my life - and my son’s life, for that matter.

(Note: If you are reading these words, you were part of that… you were part of one of the most happily seismic weeks of my life. Thank you…)

The next day, I got up on my first full day of Being a Writer and headed out to the sticks to meet my friend, Chris. We had a last round of golf for the season on the docket. I had picked the course. It’s about 30 miles west of me and a pleasant little drive.

So, I left early figuring I’d get out there and then find a place to sit and Be a Writer for a couple hours.

Drove through a few charmless little downtowns past a few nondescript places I’m sure were just fine but clearly weren’t Writerly (and as a Writer, well, that certainly wouldn’t do, now, would it?).

Turned the car away from town and out into rolling countryside on a little rural route that wound past corn fields and dairy farms and old neglected barns.

Came up over a rise and there it was:

The Country Diner of Legend.

The one you’ve heard about. Endlessly.

The little no-frills place cable news outlets and the New York Times seem to think represents the very heart of Real America.

I happen to love diners and unfancy places frequented by locals, so I pulled in.

(Note: I apologize in advance for the potentially excessive detail here. I like to do a little table-setting about people and places that might make recurrent appearances. You oughta be able to picture them like you’ve been there…)

And, oh, this place was WRITERLY.

The single entrance door opened to a narrow, arched room like an old train car someone converted into a luncheonette. To the left, were two booths. Ahead, a long counter lined by permanent stools with seats padded in vinyl that spun around on their black pedestals. One was broken with a handwritten sign taped to it warning customers.

To the right, two more booths and then an opening to a dining room with a handful of tables along windows with a view out over whatever was behind the place.

A waitress behind the counter looked up as the bells hanging on the front door jangled their announcement someone had come in.

“Sit anywhere?” I asked.

“Anywhere clean.” she said “There are a couple that haven’t been cleared yet.”

So, I took the first booth to the right as she brought menus and then a coffee.

The special: eggs, bacon, hash browns and toast - $6.

Sweet fancy Moses, I was home. And it was a very Writerly home where Writers Who Write Things drink many cups of coffee over many plates of eggs while writing very deep and moving and well-imagined things.

Ordered breakfast as the door jangled open again.

“Sit anywhere?” the new customer asked.

And you know the answer. “Anywhere clean…”

The busboy had appeared from the kitchen only briefly and my waitress, as I now understood, was the only person working front of house.

So, my food came and I sat there with laptop closed, eating, lost in thought, just taking it all in, the details of the place.

It reminded me of the little place my father used to take me during New Hampshire summers. Spain’s Diner. A tiny place perched above a river that runs cold and clear year round. It has changed hands but it is still there. I took my son there last summer.

My daydreaming was interrupted by my waitress, walking towards me with coffee pot in hand, almost at my table before turning to yell toward the kitchen “_____, can you clear the tables. Someone sat down at one that hasn’t been cleared.”

Then she turned back to me, exasperated, as I laughed and said “It wasn’t that hard, was it? The instructions… Sit anywhere clean.”

She laughed and said “It wasn’t supposed to be.” and then topped up my coffee.

I sat there for awhile, drifting back into thinking about this new thing, this Writer’s Life, and where I’d find to sit and work.

Decided I’d come back to The Diner and next time, I’d open the laptop and write. I’d sit in the last booth to the left because as I had now learned, those windows in the dining room facing out behind the diner looked out over a small air strip.

Behind the diner, single-engine planes occasionally drifted down onto a simple runway. Flanking it: a grass field where planes sat unused, resting on their tail wheels, noses up, like aging props.

The dining room seats were the ones with the views people came for along with six dollar plates of eggs and pancakes and waffles.

I’d sit in the last booth on the left up front because no one would likely want it or care that a person who looked Very Writerly had been sitting there for two hours pecking away on a laptop at the very post you are now reading.

Welcome to The Diner, my friends. We have only just begun this story.

Later, or tomorrow, I will pick it up and introduce you to Jen, the lone waitress who works front of house. She is doing her very best.

Tacked above the register is a picture of a little boy in full football uniform, the number 26 in crisp blue letters stitched on his jersey. He is six-years old. He is Jen’s son. He’s the reason she gets up at 4:30 in the morning to open the diner… but that’s a story for another day.

(Note: This post is free to all. If you’d like to share it, feel free. Every share, every paid subscriber, helps chip away at what I need to make a go of this writer thing.)