Rules For Sharing This Café With Me, A Writer
Whoa there, buddy! Were you just going to pull up that chair and sit down? We need to have a little chat first.
I am a writer. But I don’t need to tell you that since it’s clear from the sticker on my laptop with the meaningful Neil Gaiman quote. I can tell you’re not a writer because you smell like you’ve showered within the past week. You’ve chosen to sit at this table, which — as is obvious by the sea of pajama pants and the single cups of drip coffee slowly being nursed over the course of five hours — is intended for writers. Despite my many pleas to management and that one harassment charge, I am apparently legally required to allow you to sit here. We can make this work as long as you abide by my rules.
Do not encroach. This is my space. I am entitled to this area in which I have spread out my computer, my notebook, my pen collection, my phone, my newspaper, my six books of research, a copy of Terry Eagleton’s Literary Theory that I’ve never actually read but keep on hand so people will know I’m a serious writer, and my lucky troll doll. You are entitled to those three inches on the corner, over the leg of the table that makes it impossible for you to pull your chair in all the way.
There is acceptable noise — the soothing patter of fingers on keyboards, the soft hum of the espresso machine, the gentle…
