Up, up and away.
I love airports. As a writer, I'm forever in search for the story. The one I'm allowed to build from scratch based on an inspiration from the handsome guy standing next to me at Starbucks.
Where's he going? Why? Is he coming back? Does he have a girl he left behind, or one he's going to fetch on bended knee? Is he a rogue on the run, trying to stay one step ahead of the mobster he screwed out of a wad of cash, which he now plans to use to indulge in a Gingerbread latte—extra whip?
And what about the girl sprawled in chairs, her overstuffed bag tossed carelessly at her feet, her fingertips flying over the tiny keyboard in her palm? She's "yell-texting", you can tell by the flurry of fingers, her tight lips; her furrowed brow.
Who's getting the brunt of her wrath?
What about the young man with the guitar slung over his shoulder and a backpack he likely salvaged from the back of a closet, the one he used to stuff with high school textbooks and marble notebooks scrawled with lyrics to his songs instead of notes from history or algebra class; what's his story?
Off to Nashville? Or L.A.? Or New York City to strum his way from a street corner in Greenwich to a sold out show in Madison Square Garden? His only source of transportation; one flight, a wing—and a prayer. It works for some— and that's what keeps the dreamer dreaming.
They've got stories. Every one of them. Airports are full of them. I watch, because one of them is next under my scope. Bound for the blinding, probing glare of my screen and my "tap, tap, tap" of keys -- determined to expose their story, even if it is a simple, manufactured product of my imagination.