Wanting to partake in the writer cliche, I've parked my ass and my laptop, in the Satellite coffeeshop on the corner of Alameda and Coors, and it's already become apparent there's a writer hierarchy. There are four of us with laptops right now: three women and a guy. Based off the surface, I'm probably on the bottom rung. I'm in my favorite pair of jeans and a black t-shirt and my rockstar earrings, but I'm working off a PC. The guy, whom I recognize from a stint in the Golf Course Starbucks in 2003, is shlubby and working off an acient Dell, but I've heard he's had three screenplays optioned, so he can afford to hang around and type in coffeeshops all day.

The next woman is working on a 12" Apple iBook. She puts me to shame. She's got the asymetrical hair cut with perfect highlights, the saucy black boat-neck blouse and crisp white capris and black ballet flats and her jewelry's super coordinated. She's a hunt-and-pecker. She's got a copy of Writer's Market and the new Jennifer Weiner trade sitting under her latte. She kind of scares me.

But least you think I'm judging solely off of clothes. The queen typer is in her pajamas and working on a 17" G4 powerbook. Her hair's tied up and hasn't been washed in a couple of days and she keeps frowning and going back for more house blend. I heard her gossip with the barista and say revisions are hell. They asked her what she did this weekend, and she said, "revised."

To which I say amen, sister.

I look at her, and I think someday. Someday I'll be the pajama queen.