Ever wonder who those people are who are typing away on their computers in the windows of coffee shops in the middle of the afternoon? While everyone else is stuck within the confines of cubicles, standing behind counters, driving motor vehicles, or otherwise hunkered down somewhere under the thumb of The Man, these people are seated in these caffeinated havens, their ceramic cups steaming obediently at their sides.

Today, I am one of them. And that’s a cup of chai tea to my right.

I hoped the court would excuse me from jury duty—you know, under that whole “patient care” clause.

The superior court blandly rejected the letter my boss wrote on my behalf, unimpressed with the fact that I am a physician. (Why, yes, that’s my self-righteous elitism erupting again. I keep forgetting to apply the topical cream to the area on a daily basis.)

There are two superior courts in King County: One is located in downtown Seattle; the other (the “Regional Justice Center”, otherwise fondly referred to as “RJC”) is located in Kent. I was sent to Kent. (Those of you in the area can appreciate the pleasure that comes with mingling with the other drivers that are trying to avoid the construction traffic on I-5.)

From what I can tell, Kent is a small, fairly industrial suburb, though the RJC building has that unadorned, sterile, official feel to it (compared to the courthouse in Seattle, which is this uppity marble-glass-metal structure). Across the street is a prepubescent strip mall that is honestly trying to live up to the legendary malls of Southern California. (Not enough palm trees or pretentious names.)

The jury assembly room resembles an airplane, in appearance, arrangement, and purpose. The chairs, arranged in crooked rows, feature a peach-pink floral pattern against a light blue background. Magazines, newspapers, and other readables are folded underneath random chairs or strewn against the windows (which overlook the burgeoning strip mall). Small televisions hang from the ceiling.

No one was thrilled to be there, but everyone looked unruffled. Like airplane passengers, everyone was waiting for the time to pass and hoped to get out of there as soon as humanly possible.

In an effort to combat boredom (which does not respond to a topical cream), people brought their computers or packed several books. A few women brought (non-metal) knitting needles. Several people listened to their portable music players. Some people nodded off and snored loudly—people looked at them in mild amusement, but bid them peace in their slumber.

I packed three books and completed more reading during the course of my two-day jury duty than I usually complete in an entire week.

Productivity can stave off boredom for only so long, though. And a room packed with bored people for two days makes for interesting people watching:

Men stare at women. Women also stare at men, but they exercise more discretion when doing so. Men, on the other hand, will watch a woman the moment she walks through a door. Their eyes will follow her as she crosses a room, says, ‘Excuse me,’ to the people seated at the end of the row, stumbles over a few people, and settles into her chair. And they will continue to look at her, kinda slack-jawed—and not in that stunned, overwhelmed sort of way, but in that eyes glazed over, not-entirely-aware-that-they-are-staring sort of way—until something else (real or imagined) refocuses their attention.

Many of the extroverts immediately start making connections. They open with a small remark—”I had to drive in all the way from Shoreline”—and nearby extroverts raise their eyebrows and exclaim, “Wow! That must have taken you a long time—they couldn’t send you to Seattle, huh? I’m coming from Lake Forest Park.” “Hey, my sister lives in Lake Forest Park.” “Oh really? Where about? I live off of 178th and 28th.” and on and on and on. Soon, they’re talking about the fructose content of honey, blood types, and anxiety disorders. No kidding.

Meanwhile, the introverts are hiding behind their books or plugging their ears with headphones. Or, perhaps, eavesdropping on the extroverts and capturing images with their retinas.

Some people don’t seem to mind that everyone can hear their end of a cell phone conversation. Some people were clucking about mental retardation, negotiating plans for dinner, mourning the difficulties of an elderly parent with dementia, or cooing “I love you” to their spouses (mistresses, whatever).

It was with great glee that we were dismissed early from our jury duty today; not only had we completed our service, but we were released before lunch! The way some people cheered (including yours truly) was reminiscent of kids running out of the classroom for an overdue recess. (Yes, we are eager to fulfill our legal obligations for this democracy.)

One of the three books I read was Lamott’s Bird by Bird (thanks, Wesley!). I only made it to page 18 before we were dismissed. In those few pages, though, Lamott makes the point—several times—that getting one’s writing published isn’t all what writers imagine it to be. This isn’t something I didn’t already know, of course—we all have fantasies about how experiences might unfold, though they frequently do not occur as our imaginations suggest. She instead emphasizes the joy of writing for its own sake—something I both agree with and warmly accept.

In those few moments before I was dismissed from jury duty, I pondered this. Perhaps it’s not that I want my writing published—I just want to write well. Lamott remarks

Writing has so much to give, so much to teach, so many surprises. That thing you had to force yourself to do—the actual act of writing—turns out to be the best part.

I’ve equated good writing with published writing, which, to be fair, isn’t necessarily a false relationship: Most published writing is good writing, but not all good writing is published. Maybe that’s solace for my unpublished soul; maybe it’s an excuse for my reluctance to try harder. Maybe I’m just delusional about the quality of my writing.

Some nights, I sit in front of my computer and watch the blinking cursor, wondering what the heck I shall write. Nothing appeals to me. An hour will pass and I will have started ten, fifteen sentences, only to unceremoniously delete them in dissatisfaction. Other times—like now—I recognize the wealth of stories I can tell, though I fear telling them. Writing is wonderful. It also makes one vulnerable.

I’ve finished my cup of chai. I didn’t expect to elaborate at this length about writing.

But how I do love it.