She sat in the coffee shop and stared at her laptop. The stories there were all filled with passion, love and pain. Her cursor hovered over the delete button for one of the stories she had typed out on wine fueled, tear filled evening.
Drama. That is what her writing was viewed as. She wrote to spill the emotions from her heart the only way she knew.
"I don't want to delete this." she whispered softly.
"Then don't" a woman's voice came from behind her.
She turned to see an old woman sitting at the small table behind her.
Dressed smartly in a dark blue business suit, practical brown heels, and her blonde hair coiled on her head. Within that blonde coif sat, at a jaunty angle, a red pillbox hat with a small gold feather.
She had to smile at that little touch of I am who I am touch.
"Don't delete writing that comes from your heart my dear"
"I have been told its drama." she said with a sigh. "Guess it is not what some people want to read. I have been called harsh with my words."
The woman took a drink from her cup, set it down and the stood gathering her purse with her.
"You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories.If people wanted you to write warmly of them then they should have behaved better."
The words hit her like an arrow of realization and she nodded.
"You are right. They are my stories and while they may not always be happy they have made me who I am." her chin lifted at that last word.
The suited woman inclined her head then tossed down a business card on top of the keyboard.
"Polish up your stories and then give me a call. I think we have business to discuss."
And with that she walked out of the coffee shop the gold feather in the red had swaying in the breeze.
She looked down at the card and gasped to see the woman was the head of a publishing company.
A grin spread on her face and she knew that her soul spilled forth was worth the pain.
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