Writing in a Starbucks Terrifies Me

A significant portion of my college days was spent writing fiction — a bunch of short stories, two manuscripts. If I had a professor who lectured straight off Powerpoint slides, I’d fold the syllabus and start writing whatever came to mind. Between classes you’d find me in the library working on a throwaway manuscript. The idea was to write something that relied on a lot of cliches in plot, character, and dialogue so that I could get these out of my system.

In the beginning I used the college’s library as writing time. There was enough space to lay out and not have to worry about scrambling for a seat. You’re pretty much with your peers so there’s also no worry about having a degenerate sit in your proximity. The negative is the silence. All that quiet is nap time. Even if I managed to keep my eyes open I’d end up spending a lot of time thinking about the silence instead of trying to pair up ideas.

As time passed I found myself putting a lot of words down in Starbucks. People in motion and in lively conversation accelerates the brain, so long as you don’t eavesdrop. There’s also something about seeing other people work that makes me want to work. Not necessarily competition because not all the people working are writing; some are studying, some just killing time. That homeless person over there is simply killing us all.

Yet there is one type of person that gives me pause about the make-pretend I write in a moleskine. I’m looking at him now. A balding, middle-aged man with glasses that frame his face just as badly as his disheveled clothes. From what I can tell, the beaten and torn CVS plastic bag holds Berger’s Way of Seeing, tupperware, keys, and a sunglass case maybe. He’s writing in a green, spiral Mead notebook.

I’m going to judge him solely on his appearance and the fact that it sounds like he’s having a conversation with himself. I’m not going to ask; I’m much too concerned about all that dirt under his fingernails. So I’m going ahead with the opinion he’s just given up, that he’s become complacent with his place in life and has no desire to improve or shower. I don’t know, maybe he does make a living off his writing. He’s wearing an ill-fitting shirt and pants that look like they’ve never been washed. He’s kicking back at a Starbucks on a Thursday afternoon. I’ll judge a book by its cover…and it’s spine because this guy is only a year’s slouch away from swinging into a bell tower.

Spiral Mead is my fear. I’ve been min-maxing since college. An invitation to drinks after work is wasted on me. I get a charge out of thinking “while they are having drunk fun I’m working on something that has life style change possibilities.” I’m not happy with my current place in life simply because I haven’t proven to anyone that I can get paid for something I love to do.

Just because I’m working hard towards something doesn’t mean I’ll achieve said something. I could spend months writing and sending out short stories and submissions. I could spend years writing a manuscript, and hope it gets through the slush pile. All that time adds up. All that life could pass me by.