Coffee Culture and Writing

One of the more obvious instances where my cynicism points out my own hypocrisy. The coffee-shop writer. Be it Stardick's or an establishment of a less-contrived nature--they're easy to pick out of the crowd.

Note the person with rounded shoulders, their Mac Notebook decorated with various anti-whatever decals. See how they type with great fervor for a good solid seven minutes before looking up to see if anyone sees that they see what they see when they see...oops, I've lost myself here. They like attention. They want someone to come up and ask what they're working on.

Hypothetical Conversation:
Excuse me, I couldn't help but notice you sitting in front of a computer. I've never seen someone do that before. Are you a writer?

Oh indeed. *scrambles to find his paper BC Federation of Writers free membership card*

She points to his screen. Is it a novel?

Why yes! I've created a world where little bum-tickling gnomes commit heinous crimes in a burned-out, 18th Century European city.

I see.

Thankfully, there's a really keen detective-type who just happens to have a knack for solving said crimes, accompanied by his possible-lover and sidekick. Not to mention that he has a penchant for Absinthe and is double-jointed in both wrists (something his sidekick approves of, no doubt).

Oh my, do you...

Oh, and I should mention that I'm writing this all in the past-past tense with flashbacks coming from the future and intermittent snippets of a few poems I wrote to a girl in high-school acting as chapter breaks.

And on and on. The complete stranger now frantic for escape, fakes a sneeze, a seizure, a bout of gout, and exits stage left. But the writer, now smug, feels strengthened by the conversation, his bold reality of carving out a brave new world for literature now bolstered. He grips his skinny-vanilla-latte with both hands--hands shaking with a palsy we call self-gratification. He sips and muses, chuckles wryly at some inside joke, and turns back to his Tetris game.

Now, the problem is, I love to write in coffee shops. Seriously. I face away from the windows, my back to the populace, fire up the XPS, and get a surprisingly amount of good (to my estimation) work done.

It helps that a large latte sits next to me, from which I occasionally sip and ponder whether I've just given away too much information in an opening paragraph. It helps, dammit. But no one talks to me. It might be the fuck off sign I hang over my shoulders. Or the will hump your leg for food I keep as back-up. But I get a lot done. And I like the fact that someone else has to clean up after me.

Plus I wear flannel shirts and baggy jeans and usually one of those boxer caps that make me look more artistic than I actually am. Why? Because I am just as much a bastard of invention as the rest of you. Or, maybe it's just me and the rest of you are legit. Who knows? But I do like me some coffee mixed with that there frothy milk stuff.