If I could, and mind you I know I can't, I would go back in time to the late 70's. I would make my age 31 (because 20's are too young and 40's too old), and I would find a place to hang out--a place that I am sure is full of romanticism. It would be a dark bar built with hardwood by master carpenters before the second world war. There would be an area with a piano, and booths along the wall. Smoke would be floating in the air highlighted by the harsh lights of the bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling.
Each night would be a cool fall night. I would walk to the bar after working at The Times as an editorial writer. In the bar I would find my booth. As I would situate myself at the table--note pad, my father's old Sheaffer fountain pen, Zippo lighter and Marlboro hardpack--the waitress would come with my clean ashtray, Macallan's scotch, and a smile.
During the night I would observe the crowd, make notes and listen to (what would be then) new Billy Joel songs played be the master himself, William Martin Joel.
Sounds boring, I know, but I would eventually publish the work into a literary masterpiece...and I would still go to my little bar on the corner...
The point is this: I want to be a writer.
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