What do I write today?

Not a very ambitious beginning, huh? What if Melville started Moby Dick that way? How many people would have gotten past page one?

What do I write today? Call me perplexed…

Yeah, it doesn't give the reader great confidence in the good writer's talents. Luckily for you, this isn't the great American novel, it's just the novelty of my life; something to digest with a coffee and a banana muffin at Starbucks before Googling white whales. Don't worry, I'm there too, naked with a harpoon. Yeah, you'll be diving for the escape key faster than you could type Queequeg's coffin. You'll probably want to clear the coffee spume from the laptop screen too, it's covering my naughty bits.

For those of you who didn't realize Moby Dick was anything more than a Led Zeppelin track: laugh now. No it wasn't that funny but it was filled with literary references and it'll make that cute girl in the glasses sipping her latté, two tables over, look up. She'll want to know what's funny, we all like to laugh.

For God's sake don't show her my blog, you'll sink the ship like Ahab with a crazed gleam in his eye. You might as well open up with, "Hi, I'm Jim, and I've been alone for two years. You sure have got a purdy mouth."

Yeah. Tell her you're researching Jane Austin. She'll like that. You'll impress her. See, it's all in the words. Be it literature, the great hello, or perfect date, it's all in the lexicon. The right words are the difference between the creepy weirdo hunched over his monitor, and the amazing guy who gives you the big giddy.

Oh sure, sometimes it's more than words, it's a look, a glance, a dimple, but sooner or later we all open our mouths, and that's what makes the difference between The Grapes of Wrath and The Da Vinci Code. Ask the girl with the latté who's perching at your table. She'll tell you. She's smiling. Offer her a seat. Talk to her.

We all have to talk sometime. Talking: the great communicator. Yeah it's what separates man from mimes. Well, that and opposable thumbs. Mimes don't write books either. Don't look at me, I'm a blogger: we're one link below slam poets on the evo-literary chain. We can't manage cool beats and imperfect rhyme; we might as well be ferrets.

Don't tell that to latté girl. She's cute, but I can never get as far as hello. I'm so insecure I have to talk about myself in the third person because there's no way she's sitting at this table because of me. It has to be that third person: the witty writer. I'm just a blogger, and it's all smoke and letters.

I'm also divorced. It makes me feel like the William Hung of the nuptial world. I probably shouldn't sing on that topic. Why is the smiling latté girl still here? She's finished her cup. She should have been on the first raft off the ship.

What do I write today?

What do I say?

It's all in the words, and my mouth is a dry parchment caked with dust. Single syllables and involuntary grunts. The girl gives me the look. You know the one, "Do you normally sweat and stammer like that? Should I call you a doctor?"

And like that the pain is over. She shrugs up her purse and wanders off. The fickle winds blow a wisp of "hi, I'm Rob" to chase her. But those words fall short.

After the divorce, each day I get up and get closer to finding the words that speak to the world. The words that say "Hi, I'm Rob." Sometimes they ride the bravery of Captain's Courageous, other times they're mere mice-no men.

What do I write today?

I am the author of my words. What I write comes from my heart. There will be other latté girls. I will try again. I will learn their lexicon, even if the caffeine shakes kill me.