I write whenever I want to be like someone else. I write music when I listen to good music; I write fiction whenever I read good fiction; I write memoirs whenever I read good memoirs. It's a shame I never end up having a finished product that I feel would ever amount to my inspiration. Nevertheless, I write.
I discovered my niche while visiting Ireland this past summer. I rented a bike and decided to ride a few miles away from my rented cottage to get away from my family for a while. What was planned to be a few miles ended up being fifteen, and that was only in one direction. I neared the town of Ennistymon, trailed by a brigade of thunder clouds. I quickly locked my bike to the fence of a library and searched for shelter.
The first establishment I found was named Eugene's, a brightly colored pub in the center of Main Street. I walked through the swinging doors which were merely waste high, and made my way to the bar. The bald
bartender was mid conversation with a skinny grey man about some type of politic. I politely waited for the conversation to end, and once it did, the bartender turned to me and asked in a sweet brogue: "What can I getcha', lad?"
"Pint of Guinness, please." I laid down four Euros on the glossy wood and rested my body weight against the bar, waiting for the stout to settle. I glanced around at the wall art advertising music festivals in which acts like Van Morrison and Thin Lizzy were to play, though they were dated. Another poster read "Experience: It's what you do with it that counts." I grinned, and turned to my pint which was now perfectly balanced.
I made my way to a small table on which I laid out my notebook and pen. I took a sip of Guinness, and got to work.
I wrote about a girl back home. I had broken up with her the week before I left for Ireland. It was the hardest thing I had ever done, and her romancing with other boys while I was overseas didn't make it much easier on me.
As I drowned in my own melancholy, I eavesdropped on the grey man's conversation. He spoke of old friends, late relatives and glory days, and while he reminisced, the brigade of clouds dropped a blanket of heavy rain onto the street, and with it came another man into Eugene's, dressed in a wide hat and trench coat.
This man spoke with a thick British accent, and greeted the bartender formally. "Afternoon, Brian," he said, and took a damp seat at the bar. "Guinness, please," he continued. "Rain's fatter than my ex-wife."
I couldn't help but laugh. The man turned to me.
"Like that one?" he asked.
I nodded.
"What are ya, some kinda writer?" he asked me, gesturing toward my notebook.
"Well, I hope to be." I had been trying to hide the fact that I was--
"AMERICAN!" the man exclaimed. His jolly red face shook and his eyed widened with delight. He stroked his thin white beard and pondered a moment. "An American writer. I've seen this before..."
My face must've been noticeably red.
"You're scarin' the lad," said the bartender.
"Ah, nonsense. What's your name, young man?"
"Sean. Sean Tobin."
"Sean Tobin the American writer in Ireland? That's one for the books, Brian!" The bartender laughed at the man's joke. "My name's--"
I cannot remember that man's name; I cannot remember what he talked about. I cannot remember what I wrote about that day, and I cannot remember when it stopped raining. I left my notebook in that bar. I'm not sure if it's because I meant to, or because I was too proud to return for it once I realized it wasn't in my possession. I do remember how I felt. I was Sean Tobin, the American writer in Ireland. I was alive.
I called up the girl back home that night. I told her how much I missed her. I told her of how far I'd ridden my bike; how much I loved Ireland; how much I'd enjoyed writing in bars; and I repeated how much I missed her. I don't know if it was the jolly old man in the trench coat, or the Irish rain, or the Guinness, but I found myself that day. I'd found my element. I knew that girl was mine. I knew writing was mine. I was Sean Tobin, the American writer in Ireland, and I was in love.
