I frequent this pier because the fishermen upon it are usually rather talkative. Other fishers tuck in corners unseen from the road, precariously pass through closed gates and down steep hills to find distance and quiet. But the fishers upon this pier willingly sharing a small workspace with fellow enthusiasts and quickly engage in conversation. My presence is generally welcomed at this pier to prodding skepticism and inside jokes to which I am not privy. An interview on this pier could easily occupy my entire evening.
On my final attempt to search for anglers I found none. The fishers at this pier were absent. The parking lot empty, the shoulder of the road abandoned save beer bottles and tangled fishing line. In part I was relieved. I have grown tired of this search. At each visit to the Delta, the length of time it takes me to get out of my car has slowly increased. Rationalizing why not to talk to fishermen is on par with rationalizing why not to get out of bed in the morning. Sometimes I leave, feeling unable to take on the ten or so conversations I am about to find myself in. But most days I get out of the car and take the walk down the banks with clipboard in hand. Rarely do I head home on those evenings feeling like I made a wrong decision by meeting ten strangers.
***
Like the fishers, I have been absent; my imagination stifled by static verbs like 'is' and faulty sentence structures marked in red. Sometimes my writing gets talked out of existence, other times I can not see through the thick layers of heat that rest between me and any semblance of creativity. But mostly, my thoughts turn to the conversations with strangers I could be having if only I would get out of the car.