Come to Mama

On our writing search for fulfillment, Jen and I are also searching for the perfect coffee shop in which to write. No such place exists, it just gives us something to discuss, a reason to procrastinate, and something to blame when the muse is not forthcoming.

I don't think the "where," matters to a real writer; we all have our comfort zones for things, but if you truly want to write, you'll do it anywhere, with whatever materials are at hand. Laptop, notebook, cave wall; it's all just a place to express yourself.

It does make me think, though, sometimes, of what Ondaatje wrote about Rudyard Kipling in "The English Patient;" that when reading his words, it was equally important to think of Kipling writing under the bright haze of the African sun, pen scratching slowly across the paper as he wrote in his rooms across the way from the Custom House. "Think of the speed of his pen." The dull heat slowed the thought and the hand, and one had to keep that in mind when reading his words, slowly, as he wrote them. Kipling is not for speed readers like me.

If Kipling can write anywhere, certainly so can I. However, good coffee and a comfortable work space definitely ease the way. And if the coffee shop also sells liquor, well, that's what I call Nirvana. I have learned of such an oasis today, courtesy of my oldest sister, and Jen doesn't know it yet, but we are totally meeting there next week. I don't know if it's the perfect place to write, but it might just be perfect for us.