Today, I decided I needed to go to a coffee shop to write. Why?
I think the question is Why Not?
It’s what all the cool writers do. They write. In coffee shops. And I, I have decided, shall be cool.
I also needed some tough love to turn off the Netflix. Holy smokes! Do you have any idea how many shows they have? A lot. They have a lot of shows and I can watch them all in my bed with my family sized bag of Doritos from Costco with no one around to give me disapproving stares or wonder how I smuggled it past the ticket takers in the lobby. A word of advice? No one will ask you if you’re really pregnant. Unless you’re a dude. In which case, tell them you have a belly goiter.
About a half hour in and my second bowl of coffee, I suddenly REALLY looked around the coffee shop. It had crystal chandeliers and black upholstered wing back chairs and they got some artist to come in and write the menu on a 20x30 foot blackboard wall with hand lettering that would make Platt Rogers Spenser cry. There were handmade pastries with crystallized sugar and rustic bread made with the tears of a widowed farm woman. And sitting at all the marble topped tables with their iron work legs?
A row of us asshole writers who looked like we had rolled out of bed and decided pajamas were good enough.
What a wonderful world we live in that I can eat a scone beneath an $800 chandelier on a Monday morning. Next week, I’ll brush my hair. Maybe.