Sometimes it seems as if everybody wants to be a novelist. I’m sitting in my local coffee shop, where I retreated in order to — what else? — work on my own novel. The place is not crowded, but I count three others hiding behind their laptop screens. At the table beside mine, a man is explaining his screenplay’s entire backstory to a red-haired woman who cannot ask questions because of his rapid-fired explanations. He is in love with his flawed characters, his unique setting, his intricate plot. He pauses only to glance suspiciously over his shoulder at me as if afraid I will steal his ideas, despite the headphones firmly planted on my head.
I love to write in cafes, especially those, such as this one, that charge for internet access, thus removing the temptation to go online. (Which is why this entry will be posted after I am home — if I survive a return trip to my house. But more on that later.) Conveniently enough, relocating to a coffee shop also removes the temptation to clean house, talk on the phone, or admire my cats instead of work on my book — although I admit that it takes a special kind of writers’ block to encourage me to clean house instead of write.
Beyond those temptations, however, I have another reason for my change of venue: sheer terror. I’ve been sitting on the futon in my living room all morning, double-fisting mugs of tea and pretending to write, which means that I actually thought about my plot for a while and even wrote ninety-eight words. Then I updated my Facebook profile, read a few blogs, and played Jigsawdoku until my eyes glazed over. (I console myself with the knowledge that I’m really more of an afternoon writer, and I’m ahead of schedule anyway, but it doesn’t help much.)
And then around an hour ago I slipped into the kitchen to brew another cup of tea, and found the following sight waiting for me upon my return. Please pardon the fuzziness of the picture; there are limits to both my camera’s zoom lens and my willingness to risk my life for a clearer shot. As is wise, since shortly after I sneaked in a photograph, they lasered the UPS guy with their eyes. Then they ate him. I feared I may be next, so I grabbed a notebook and went into hiding. Another thing it turns out coffee shops are good for: covert operations. Just ask Mr. Movie Script, who still seems convinced I’m a spy.
Neither. It’s a real, unphotoshopped photo, but the weird eyes are actually caused by the flash going off.
Those cats should contact Nick Green about modelling for one of his covers!
http://www.nickgreenbooks.webeden.co.uk/#/catspaw/4526327218
Those are the scariest cats I’ve ever seen in my life! I love how they are positioned as sentries next to your computer. They’re either sucking the life out of your laptop or giving it a transfusion. It’s hard to tell which.
Weighing in on the coffeeshop/library as a place to write: I’m with you! I love writing in coffeeshops where I can’t afford the internet. It’s just amazing to me how many times I’ll get stuck on what to write next, and my immediate thought is, “Hmm, I should check and see if anybody I knew in third grade is on google!” I need to be protected from my own bad impulses. Our library, though otherwise comfortable (they’ll even let us bring in tea and coffee) has wi-fi. And it has another hazard as well: lots and lots of books and magazines! Already written. Can get tempting to go read those when you’re trying to write one of your own. Also, at times I start thinking, “Look how many books already exist! The world doesn’t need another one. I’m just going to sit here and read Oprah magazine. Or take a nap.”
Cool kitty laser eyes. They’d scare me out of the house, too. The coffee shop is a great place to work as long as they don’t turn the music up too loud. That drives me crazy.
How funny, Mary! And you know, they’re such hams, every time they hear me turn on the camera they come running. Especially The Basil. I think he associates the camera with attention.
So true, Sandi! I’m with you on both the random web searches, and also on the temptations of books in the library. It’s so tempting to look something up online or in a book and call it “research”–only to find myself still reading something totally off-topic an hour and a half later instead of writing.
I hate that, too, Susan. Actually, the first time I tried to write there, they had a live Ani diFranco CD turned up to top volume. Not only was the music distractingly loud, but the lyrics were annunciated and she talked on and on between every song. It took a long time before I went back there, but it’s under new ownership and hasn’t been as bad since.