I read a great book awhile ago called The Invention of Air, by Steven Johnson. It recounts the story of Joseph Priestley, who discovered of all things, oxygen. In the book the author speculates that the Age of Enlightenment during Joseph Priestley's lifetime, came about in part because of coffeehouses. Yes coffeehouses. Because before the advent of coffeehouses, people would congregate at alehouses. And well, as might be expected, caffeine was a major contributor to the stimulating discussions going on at the time, much more so than mead. One can just imagine Priestley, Ben Franklin, Thomas Jefferson and their colleagues of the time period, all jacked up on coffee, expounding on their ideas.
"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.
"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.
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