OK, not exactly. It was actually a lovely Saturday morning in a Denver coffeehouse, not St. Petersberg in the depths of winter. And I carted my laptop to the cafe, hoping the change of scenery would provide a tonic for the tired prose I’ve been grinding out.
When I bought my first laptop, I had romantic notions of writing in cafes or whiling away long afternoons in the park, having my way with the language. This isn’t what happens. Unless one is completely bohemian, writing in public means bathing, and bathing means time, prime writing time when one could be making deadlines instead of looking decorously baleful and sipping coffee at the hip joint down the street.
But this was the weekend, so I packed everything up, including my bags of notes and books and ancillary wires, and, so as to appear civil, I bathed. I was ready to rumble. But to my horror, two young men were playing acoustic music at the cafe. I’m not a member of the I-pod generation. I don’t write to music. I write in silence. Or to the screaming of cats.
Resigned, I chose a small table away from the crowd and started. The music was nice and easily tuned out. I looked at my assignments; they must have doubled in the night. Despairing I bought a $3 white tea and while waiting to complete the transaction, noticed this flyer on the bulletin board:
Posh Yarn Boutique to open June 24. 4420 Tennyson St. A yarn shop. In my neighborhood. Walking distance, people. A short bikeride. Suddenly I had energy to write for days.
It’s the little things that get you through.