I know the feeling. Sitting, tucked a way in a corner, in a coffee shop or bar full of people, I often have great ideas. I’m not sure whether it’s the stolen snippets of conversations or the general vibe of such places, but I thrive on the buzz.
I’m a girl who needs a dive, a hang-out, a haunt, a place. As long as I’ve been writing, I’ve done my best work tucked away in a funky cafe, scribbling longhand on tables that wobble, with Alternative music floating out of the corners. Menus change, the number of piercings and tattoos on the wait-staff change, the music definitely changes, but there’s always a hidey-hole I can call my own somewhere nearby.
So to be without a home away from home is unthinkable, yet, here I am—dive-less. I admit I’m picky about my spots. They can’t be too expensive or too busy: I need to be able to enjoy the faire without sacrificing heat, shoes or one of the cats, and I must be allowed to linger without the staff snorting steam about turning my table for the next customer. The chairs have to be comfortable if I’m…
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