I'm typing this from "My Office," which is a funky coffee shop five minutes from my home. I've found that I write more when I'm not distracted by daily life or our full kitchen of snacks. Here at my office, there is no telephone to answer, no internet (I'll email this to my blog when I get home), no looming chores or reasons to do anything else but write.
Every twenty-something person in our small town visits here. The music is not mainstream, but the kind of college alternative music that give you an "only I know this band" ego. I realize I could actually live here, breakfast and lunch are available. There's a teriyaki place next door, a mail shop, a video shop, a Radio Shack even (did you know Stephen King spent a lot of time browsing Radio Shack, I know this because strangely enough, I used to work at one during college.)
Yes, my office. For a $1.70 coffee rental fee, I am offered a table, an outlet, peppermint candies, and a place to disappear in for a few hours. So far, the poems are frequenting this place as well. So far, I only know the barista who's in my yoga class, but she lets me work. So far, this place seems to be working out.
