Sitting in a wooden chair just outside a European cafe, nursing a steamy cup of coffee, I soak it all in. A cool breeze is blowing off the street, wafting the scent of fresh cinnamon buns toward my nostrils like a jealous sorcerer. I tuck my scarf closer around my neck and put my wind-nipped fingertips to the keyboard.
This is my job.
I sit here, refill after refill, finally succumbing to the pastries, and I type on. I think thoughts, flip open a book and highlight something, then spill all of that onto the digital page.
I'm in control.
With the click of a button it's posted. I'm free. Packing up the laptop, draining the last dregs of coffee and licking the cream cheese icing from the plastic fork, I can wander these streets at my leisure knowing that someone somewhere is reading my work and smiling, thinking, acting on it. I've provided value to the world through a few black squiggles on a white screen, and the money is coming into my invisible bank account.
Will I hop a train to Paris? Will I return to my apartment for an evening of movie-watching with friends? Will I spend the rest of the day capturing this gorgeous city with my camera lens?