<![CDATA[Corene Lemaitre - Blog]]>Thu, 19 Mar 2026 11:59:15 -0700Weebly<![CDATA[Writing in Waiting Rooms]]>Thu, 19 Mar 2026 10:08:11 GMThttps://www.corenelemaitre.com/blog/writing-in-waiting-roomsYesterday, I found myself in the ER.

I was there with my father, who was ill. It wasn't the first time we'd attended. Indeed, we'd been there many times.

Security and a metal detector. Rows of chairs. Staff seated behind glass. Everyone very kind - in particular, the Ambassador, a gentleman in gold wire-framed glasses who would come over, every so often, to ask, softly and gently, if I needed anything.

At the back, by the restrooms, a vending machine, with which I did battle for some time.

Earlier, my father had informed me that he was dying. I suspected a UTI. Cue phone calls, and a journey that took us to the ER waiting room.
I'd been in my bedroom, trying to write. Of course, I had to stop.

I dread interruptions, especially as I'm pretty sure I have ADHD (runs in my family). To be torn out of hyper-focus is almost physically painful.

But Dad was sick.

In the waiting room, I scribbled, or tried to.

More interruptions. Forms needed to be filled out. Questions answered. A baby started to cry. And I hadn't had lunch. I returned from the vending machine to find my father gone, his walking frame the only proof that he had ever been.

I approached the Ambassador, who calmly helped me to locate my Dad.

Interruptions notwithstanding, I got something done. This was not new, but had always felt a compromise - a consolation prize for not living the "real" life of a writer.

It occurred to me that, maybe, writing is meant to be done on the fly.

Perhaps I'd been wrong, all this time. I want a desk, and peace and quiet. No interruptions. But that rarely happens, and maybe there's a reason for that. Was the Universe is trying to tell me something?

They find Dad a room. The hospitalist enters. I babble. Wave the paper on which I've recorded his symptoms. Dart forward as he tries to take off Dad's jacket: "I'll do that," I say...

I've got it, says the good doctor.

On my phone, I resume taking notes. Hit "trash." Realize I've accidentally deleted everything I'd just written. Don't panic, I think, panicking.

Things worked out.

In the end, I got my cheese crackers. More importantly, Dad was fine.

The baby reappeared - no longer crying, but beaming with a kind of beatific joy.

I bid farewell to the Ambassador, who smiled.

I felt as though I'd been granted some grace. Also, that I'd been given a strong, very clear message.

At my desk, I try to Write the Perfect Piece. Guess how well that goes :)

Don't get me wrong. A quiet room, and privacy, and good writing tools (like a desk) are great.

But maybe I need to learn to trust what the Universe is showing me.

Sometimes, writing feels like my battle with the vending machine. I jab at the keypad. Try to pay the price. Thump the nearest surface with the palm of my hand...

...when the solution is right in front of my face.

I'm going to stop longing for the perfect time and place. Start treating the world as one giant waiting room, in hopes that I will stop waiting.

What do you think? Have you ever had an "aha moment" that transformed your writing practice forever?
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