Deep into a meditative journey, I find myself perched at a table in the back of Café Le Rêve. Tucked underneath a crimson awning, I have a partial, but adequate view of the boulevard that stretches in front of me. The restaurant is silent except for the sounds of another patron flipping through a folded paperback book. This ambiance provides an ideal office, but has yet to aid in the process.
            With a sigh, I look up, signal the server and fumble through my amateur French. She confirms my request in English and grasps the neck of the empty bottles resting along the edge of the table. The green glass clanks as she removes the symbols of my ongoing ineptitude.
            I have spent nearly an hour imbibing bubbly water and crunching on baguette, yet my screen remains blank. Regardless, I am convinced I am only moments from discovering it: that classic novel that has been rambling in my mind for years, but never makes it through my fingertips and onto the keys of my laptop.
           Well, not yet, but this time will be different. I am at the epicenter of art and culture, ensconced in this tiny café in the City of Light. Inspiration is swirling about me. At any second it will scoop me up and carry me to literary greatness.
           As I await this magical transportation, my cursor stares expectantly. With growing impatience, I begin bouncing my thumbs on my laptop. I attempt to accelerate the creative process by gazing out onto Boulevard Saint Michel. I see the Parisians coming and going as they mingle in the sunlight of an autumn afternoon. I eaves drop on their chatter, hoping to hone in on a source of inspiration. Maybe someone is sharing news of a birth, or a death; or a wedding or a divorce. Alas, the commotion blends into a francophonic hum that is useless to my English-oriented imagination.
           Shifting my thought, I mentally venture to the lush lawns of Luxembourg Gardens that lie just over my shoulder. My shoes clap into the pavement as I twist through the pathways amongst the layered flowers. I gaze upon the buildings scattered about the park and wonder what great piece of history unfolded within their walls.
           Then I float a mile north, where the Seine is gently wrapping itself around the island upon which Notre Dame is perched. I descend the concrete steps toward the waterway. The current gently raps against the enclosed banks as I stroll alongside the majestic river.
           Next, I move my mind in the opposite direction. Approaching from the Champ de Mars, I see Mr. Eiffel’s monument presenting itself in front of me. The beams and cross braces are a tapestry of metallic artwork. The tower is a testament to Third Republic ingenuity and beauty.
           As I mentally meander around the city, I slowly feel an idea unfolding: “Paris in the fall.” That could be it. My fingers crash into the keyboard:

After a stifling summer, Paris reawakens to the refreshing breezes of September. With the departure of tourists ‘on holiday’, commuters find renewed comfort on their metro journeys. The meddlesome chiming from the bicycle lane on the boulevards subsides. In the Latin Quarter the aroma of coffee wafts about the cafés as university students share their schedules. The first leaves of autumn are turning yellow and beginning to float in delicate descent onto the cobbled byways of Père-Lachaise.
           “Here you are. Something else?” the server places a basket in front of me, disrupting my flow.
           We seem to be in an unspoken contest to see who gets to practice their foreign language. Never one to relent, I assure her, in my makeshift French, that I have what I need and thank her for the continued attention. She emits a sigh of exasperation and trudges away.
           Momentarily distracted, I begin to think of the accolades awaiting the completion of my grand oeuvre. This work will be the one that vaults me into prominence and draw comparisons to those famous American ex-pats of a century ago. I continue to muse: like them, I will live off the royalties, sit in bistros and carouse in the shadows, my tales creating vicarious bliss for those who have shared my dream but have never dared to act.
           I smile in anticipation of future celebrity, then force myself to re-focus on the task at hand. My chair creaks as I lean back and return to my screen. In a display of self-confidence, I raise my arms and place my hands behind my head, triumphantly reviewing my initial paragraph. With a flash of inspiration, I rock forward, ready to launch back into my great adventure.
           Then, just as my fingers are about to make their descent onto the keyboard, I hear a faint shuffling and feel a tap on my arm. A new, external voice softly intones “Can you pick me up from school tomorrow?”
           I jolt before responding, then nod to confirm the pickup.
           With my mental voyage now interrupted beyond repair, I open my eyes onto my suburban backyard in upstate New York and return to reality: I am not a gifted writer one novel away from being discovered. I am a middle-aged social worker who thinks he can write, speaks a little French and has read too much Hemingway.

Michael Grignon is an amateur writer. He has a day job, but, after hours, enjoys putting words together and trying to create something meaningful out of them.