A Cup of Creativity

One glance at the clock told me it was way too early to be awake. That’s what I get for falling asleep when I really should have been trying to fight the jet lag that overtook my body the second I collapsed on my pillow. The city of Paris had been bustling with workers returning to their families and children chattering animatedly with peers when I finally made it to my hotel room after a long excruciating flight where the agitated screams of a baby kept me awake for its entirety.

Now, the city was asleep. The only sounds audible were the rustling of the leaves and the chirp of crickets in the distance. The cars had long past retired and along with them, the relentless shouts of angry drivers and rumbling of engines had also ceased. Little dots of light scattered across the city below, partially illuminating roads and alleyways. To my far left stood the Eiffel Tower, a golden rod which stood proud as a symbol of Paris's beauty. 

“There’s something magical about that city,” Cindy, my best friend and fellow writer, told me. “A little change of scenery will get those ideas flowing.” My imagination had felt like it hit rock bottom after the release of my first book, and no matter how many writing prompts I looked through online, I could never find something that sparked my interest. Unfortunately for me, Cindy never seemed to have that problem which is why I had waited to consult her until I was on the verge of a panic attack at the thought of the due date for my manuscript. She explained that new experiences often ignited her creativity so when she suggested I travel somewhere, I decided to follow her advice. Booking a flight had me wincing at the digits in my bank account but I was desperate at this point. I had enough to hold me over for three days, three days to see or experience something that would hopefully jog my inspiration enough to at least start writing something. I promptly packed my trusty notebook along with some pencil and my wallet in my satchel that was well used to the point that the latches had to be delicately handled every time I opened it. I knew many of the shops and museums wouldn’t be open, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me after the effort it had taken to get here. Besides, night was when you could see the true essence of a city no matter the location. Night was when it’s at its most exposed, unable to hide behind the bustling and noise that the daylight presented. At night was when a city’s true beauty twinkled for anyone willing to explore it. 

Feeling energized, I raced downstairs, eager to taste the fresh Paris air. The moment I stepped outside, warmth seeped into my bones, embracing me. The city itself smelled fresh with a mix of flowery perfume with a hint of cigarette smoke stubbornly clinging to the petals. The moon nor the stars were visible and a sparse haze drifted along the cobblestone streets. 

My feet guided me with unwarranted confidence past partially illuminated roads and darkened shops with items hanging in the windows. 

I walked to a lovely park not far from the hotel. Trails weaved between splotches of the tall standing trees whose leaves had not yet turned orange like the ones back home. I sat down in one of the nearby benches in order to immerse myself in the scenery. Perhaps I could write a romance etched into the bark of one of these trees? I carefully unlatched my satchel and grabbed my notebook and a pencil. I opened it to a clean page and titled it “ideas” before writing down initials etched in the bark of a tree. Well, there was a start, right? I might as well try to write something. After all, I’m surrounded by the exact scenery I want to describe. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, picturing what sort of story I wanted to tell but I was empty of thoughts. Maybe it was the jet lag but I couldn’t think of anything past my initial idea. No start, middle, or end. Nothing. I flipped to the next page, hoping that its emptiness would convince my mind to fill it with words. I waited, praying for my hand to start moving but it never did. In fact, my pencil never even made contact with the paper. Instead, it just hovered, unsure, waiting for a waterfall of creativity that never came. Disappointment overtook me, and I fought the urge to cry. What was I doing here if I couldn’t even write one sentence? Sighing heavily, I stood up with my notebook in hand and my satchel swung over my shoulder to I continued my journey. 

I walked past statues I didn’t recognize; figures whose bodies had been carefully chinseled and solidified into stone by a skilled artisan. One who had taken the time to sculpt enough detail in the stone to resemble the person it was for. I greatly admired each statue as a tribute to the amount of skill and patients the artisan must of had to complete such detailed work. If only I could have that much dedication to my manuscript. There was a statue of Ferdinand Foch who I read was the Marshal of France in 1918. Marshal Foch had a permanent frown carved in his face which is what I assumed is what his soldiers saw the majority of the time. Smiles tend to become lost during war. He was carved in uniform which was highly decorated with so many medallions that his chest must have sagged to the ground. Perhaps I could write something about a military hero? Not pausing to sit down, I jotted down the idea before continuing. 

I walked down the main streets, passing under dimly lit lampposts as well as a couple of questionable alleyways for any fear induced inspiration to emerge, but I was left with nothing except my own racing heart.  

It wasn’t until the sun was barely hanging over the horizon that I admitted defeat. My legs were aching from my lack of exercise at home and I was half starved from sleeping through dinner. I haphazardly scanned my surroundings until I noticed a quaint little cafe that looked open. Needing a quick snack and a boost of caffeine, I went inside. 

The cafe felt warm and cozy with plants that hung off the walls and clusters of bean bag chairs that circled dark oak tables, but the thing that sparked my interest the most was the woman working behind the counter. She looked older with gray hair tied neatly at the base of her neck and bright green eyes that connected with mine the moment I stepped inside. She had a name tag pinned to the far left of her shirt that read “Saffry Solios.” That name sounded familiar but she greeted me before I could think anything of it. 

“Hi!” she addressed cheerfully, “what can I get for you, dear?”

“A croissant and a latte please.”

She nodded, taking my payment. The coffee machine whirled to life, interrupting the silence settling around the empty cafe. I knew it was ready when the delicious aroma of freshly ground coffee beans filled the air. Saffry handed me a cup that was steaming from the top and a bag. I expressed my thanks and plopped down on a pink bean bag chair that molded like it had been made just for me. 

“Is there something troubling you?” she asked. 

I must’ve looked taken aback because she gestured to my appearance with a sincere smile before adding, “it just looks like you’ve been up all night.”

I shook my head no, but she was not convinced in the slightest. She walked from behind the counter and sat across from me. “Are you sure?”

I don’t know if it was my drowsiness, my frustration or her kind voice, but I told her everything. I talked about my upcoming manuscript, the writers block that happened after releasing my first book and my inability to write after traveling all the way here. She listened attentively while I talked, nodding occasionally in understanding. 

“You’ll never become inspired if you’re pressuring yourself to,” Saffry explained, “Many things become diamonds under pressure but creativity doesn’t happen to work like that. However, the unique thing about inspiration is that it can come from anywhere. For instance, this to the average person would just be a regular cafe, but what if that was just a cover? What if it’s really housing a group of criminals who will be sentenced to death for crimes they didn’t commit if they’re caught? One of the beauties of telling a story is you can take absolutely anything, even something people don’t think of as exciting, and make it exciting.”

“Hmm let me see,” I said scanning the cafe before holding up my cup, “what about this cup of coffee? What could you make exciting about that?”

She thought for only a moment before answering. “Maybe it’s not really coffee but a potion crafted by a witch who wants revenge on a kingdom for making her an societal outcast. Anyone who drinks it will be cursed until they find out what they’re truly destined to do.”

“Now, your try. What can you make exciting about that plant?” Saffry asked pointing to a small potted tree sitting in the corner. 

I closed my eyes in concentration before answering. “Maybe a poor villager purchased it in hopes of harvesting fruit to sell at the farmers market but instead of growing apples like the farmer had promised, it produced fruits of gold.”

“See you can do it!” Saffry exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight, “I knew you had it in you.”

My chest felt lighter than it had in weeks and I wanted to dance with joy. Even if I hadn’t actually written anything if I can create a plot, then I’ve broken the damn on my own waterfall of words. 

“How do you know all of this? Do you write?”

“I’ve told many stories. Writing is simply an outlet that lets me tell them to say to all the people who willing to listen,” Saffry stated with a smile before walking back to meet a waiting customer.  

***

Filled with curiosity at the lady that had helped me so much, I pulled up my laptop and search up the name Saffry Solios. It was then I understood why her name sounded so familiar. Not only was she an author, but she written and published over 50 books in only 35 years. According to Wikipedia, she opened a cafe in Paris to “create a space for writer and reader alike to gather around a nice warm cup of coffee.”