"Hey, what if we put a key on the end of that kite and see what happens during an electric storm?"
or "I wonder, if I light a candle, place it under a glass jar with a plant, will the flame go out?"
I wrote about half of my novel Imaginary Brightness, or 45,000 words at a coffeehouse in town. The other half at the library. I don't have an office at home so I need a place to go to write. But since the coffeehouse has closed down, I've had a dilemma. Where to go? Especially on a Sunday when the library is closed. I miss my coffeehouse. Every time I went in there the barista recognized me and would make me a latte with a design (see above - I took a picture of it and found it this am in my iphone).
I came to recognize the regulars, the teenagers, the tourists. One would think that there were not other coffeehouse in town. Well, there is a bakery that has great doughnuts but lacks those cozy couches, and a coffee shop that serves candy but has no place to sit. They are not A COFFEEHOUSE.
They are not a place where I could go, link to the wifi, and sit down to write, oblivious to the comings and goings around me, caught up in my own little coffeehouse world of writing. When I needed inspiration I just looked up from my laptop and looked around me. For some reason the hubbub of the crowd never bothered me. I could blot it out and write away. But now it's gone. The previous owners called it quits and the sign outside said something about turning it into a brew pub. We come full circle. I guess if I were Ernest Hemingway, I'd be glad for the change of venue.
But I'm not.