I like getting to the coffee house before the regular bunch arrives. Not because I mind them. Once I have my AirPods in, the room could be full of marching bands and I’d still be able to work, most days. But I do like to get there early enough to claim a table.
Today I wasn’t early enough. Or I thought I wasn’t. There were only front-window stools available. Being a shortie, I wasn’t keen on them, but I was willing to try hoisting myself onto one.
Everything feels off today anyway: I had to park down the block. (Joke’s on the parking trolls – I am traveling light today.) And it’s going to be warmer today (yay!) so Word Raccoon insisted on digging through her dresses to find the one that doesn’t know if it’s a dress or a blouse but she said we were going to wear leggings so who cared which it wanted to be?
And oh dear, she also demanded I wear my gold chain belt.
I rarely wear belts. But seeing the dress/blouse on, I agreed with her. (I think she’s actually auditioning the outfit to see how it will work for tonight’s outing.)
Also, she has major bedhead curls and when I went to tame them she snapped at me. So, fine, here we are.
Like I said, different.
My laptop and purse were already at the window counter and I was greeting some regulars when WR spotted the barista cleaning a table. WR didn’t ask, she didn’t look around to see if anyone was waiting on it (shameless animal). She grabbed that table.
In my mind, she is offering to share it if needed. But will she? She thinks writers are like cats and must establish a place before they can think properly. She also believes that if we get there early enough we deserve a spot, which is not strictly true but I usually go along with her.
There’s a difference between choosing a place to sit and taking whatever happens to be left. When I get there early, I can pick the table that feels right, set down my things, and settle in before the day fills up. By the time the room gets busy, I’m already working. It feels less like I’m squeezing writing into my life and more like writing has a place to sit.
Sometimes I know exactly what I’m going to work on, and sometimes I don’t. Often I arrive with only a vague idea and open a draft just to see what happens. Writing doesn’t always begin with inspiration. A lot of days it starts with showing up somewhere and putting your laptop on the table.
I didn’t manage to beat the “breakfast club” here today. (Don’t tell them WR calls them that, but it’s a group of lovely people whose combined laughter decibels could shatter glass. WR is reaching for the AirPods.)
I asked WR what we are working on today, and she says she wants to revise some poetry. Good choice. Though I know she has been a bit intimidated by our Emily Dickinson studies.
She denies this hotly, but I know…
As always, we will see what happens with the words.
P.S. Books still seem to come to me in clusters. The library texted me Departure(s) by Julian Barnes and Vigil by George Saunders were ready for me only a day apart, and I’m still reading The Weight of Ink, which I love but can’t really read in bed because it’s too heavy. So lately I’ve been bouncing between Barnes and The Weight of Ink, as if they’re competing for my attention, while Saunders waits patiently for his turn.
Ironically, Barnes is talking about Proust and the nature of memory in his slim book, and I feel like some of our thoughts overlap.
dremadrudge.com 