What can YOU say in six sentences?
The group always sits at my table, perhaps because I keep their drinks coming, knowing when their glasses are half full they'll be ready for more by the time I bring the next round.
They are a group of writers with no official name, but I secretly call them The Scribes, and using my prodigious eavesdropping skills I discovered each member has a particular gift, so I named them, too.
The gentleman with two months of facial hair growth and a denim jacket is The Road Warrior, a defender of good who loves the open American highway, who is an advocate for the people (although he doesn't like them very much), who does things like fish with the Inuit in Alaska and walk the Oregon Trail, and who always keeps worn copies of On the Road and The Communist Manifesto in his camoflauge backpack.
The woman sitting next to him, the one wearing jewelry made of polished driftwood, who drinks only gin & tonics is The Quip-Master, she with the superhuman ability to know what to say in every situation, to whittle down to size the asinine with the power of her words, a sniper firing off perfectly on-target parting shots, the keeper of Ms. Dorothy Parker's legacy.
The young man with carefully parted hair and wire-framed glasses is known to me simply as The Encyclopedia, who can pull random factoids out of thin air if necessary, who can tell you who wrote the 1979 film Alien as easily as he could give you the capitals of all Middle Eastern countries, who has a nightstand piled high with back issues of The New Yorker.
There are more at the table, others with nicknames and superpowers, there's Heartstring, who understands human emotions better than most, and The Sage, whose strength is the lyrical way he advises writers and instructs them on all things writing, and then there's me, their biggest fan, hanging on to every word.