It was my fourth cup of coffee today. The diner itself had few customers, but the waitress lingered nearby. I'm sure she wanted me to leave. No doubt in my mind about that. Every freaking day she tried to make me as uncomfortable as she could.

"Still working on that great American novel?" she asked, tipping the coffee carafe to my cup. "What's it about?"

I rarely talk about my work. And I seriously doubt she would have understood the complexities of the plot.

She stood there waiting. Her jaw working on a stubborn piece of Dentyne while I slipped my forearm across the yellow legal pad I was writing on. "Must be riveting," she said.

"I'm sure it wouldn't interest you," I said.

"You're probably right."

Her tone was flat but I didn't care for what she said. Maybe I would tell her, enjoy the look on her face as she was mesmerized by my genius.

"It's about a lawyer who has to go across the country to his childhood home for his father's funeral. He was too smart for his own good and his simple family just won't cut him any slack. He's good looking and athletic and his brother's wife is trying to seduce him. Just when he can't take it any longer he runs into-," I said, stopping when she holds up her hand.

"Let me guess, he runs into the girl he left behind and those feelings are rekindled?"

"Yes." My voice is curt.

"You're not a writer, my good friend, you are a wannabe writer."

"I'm sure a woman of your, um, advanced education, can recognize the difference."

"Just giving you my opinion." She shrugged and started to walk away.

"You just do your job and leave me to mine."

She paused, turned to look at me and smiled. "That's my point. A writer doesn't look at it like it's a job. Writing is a passion. Words become your lover. You try to seduce them into sentences that will draw your reader in and hypnotize them. Each page should lure them deeper into the world of your making. You want them to weep with sadness as they realize they are reading the last page." She looks at me with a hint of pity in her eyes. "That is a writer."

The yellow paper mocked me as I looked down at it. Random sentences lay flat between the lines.

A bell on the diner door chimed and a man shuffled in. His collar flipped up and with a nod to the waitress he settled at the counter.

"How do you know so much about writing, if you don't mind me asking?"

She shrugged and slipped the check across the table. "I'm a reader. I know what I love. See you tomorrow."

Sheepishly, I gathered my things and left a ten dollar bill on the table. As my hand was on the door I heard her speak to the new customer.

"So, Mr. King. How's your new novel coming along?"

"Lisa, I'm having trouble with a couple of characters."

"Let me read what you're stuck on. I'll try to help you out."

Mr. King handed her a sheath of papers and caught my eye.

My jaw dropped. It was Stephen King.

He laughed at my expression then with a wink he sighed. "You always know what to do."