There was a young writer in the station this morning. She had a little spiral bound book into which she wrote with the tiniest of handwritings. She was secretive about the writing itself, but her eyes would scan the station for even the sest movement. She was a very intense observer. I sat next to her and skimmed the paper. I had just missed my local train as well as the express which I could have taken to 72nd street to catch up with the local. All I could do now was to wait. She made little drawings into the book too. The book was used intensely and somehow was an extension of her now. I wondered if the style of her handwriting revealed something about her personality. She was probably the perfect quiet observer.
The train was packed. She entered the train through a different door. A very well dressed man sitting in front of me reached for his calendar in his attache. On the inside of his bag was his business card. He was the Europe correspondent for a major Newspaper. He probably was what she would one day become, a successful observer, a reporter, a correspondent. He opened his little book and the pages were filled with almost the identical handwriting that I had just seen in the book on the subway platform.
I had to move to the side, the blind man with his harmonica made his way through this can of sardines which was the 1 train to Brooklyn. Most of us spilled out on 50th street. I think the young writer and observer left in the same station. Midtown is where the publishing houses are. I wish her all the luck... and really intriguing observations.