Coffee Shop Conundrum

Why is that writers thrive at coffee shops? Of course not all of them, but ironically quite a few do. Is it the sugary coffee drinks? The crappy pastries? Maybe it's the free wifi. Why is this growing scenario proving more and more true?

The past five weeks I've been spending a lot of time at my Barnes and Noble Cafe (aka Starbucks). Sadly I rarely work in my draft here, but school-that's a different story.

I've written an entire paper while sippin' on my skinny iced caramel macchiato. And the best part, I wrote it in about four hours. At home I pace and pout. Distractions are impossible to dodge. Some I create to escape the enclosing pressure of the looming due date. But when I'm in the public sphere I have no choice but to behave. The only distractions are of my own fault and mostly involve a break from bashing the keyboard. Everyone around me is quietly studying, writing or reading. They too come here to escape the distractions of home. So not only is this a public sphere but a silent union. Even with the few people chatting, the expresso machine hissing, we keep doing our thang. It's become music to our ears. Comforting even.

As much as gush about my newfound companions who I've never spoken a single word to, this writer's paradise is old news. I know I've read personal diaries and letters expressing how they've spent hours watching the public traffic by looking for inspiration. What's that famous cafe in Edinburg? The one J.K. Rowling use to sit and write at? Stephen King? Yes, the public sphere is the writer's sphere. They are the one and the same. They have been since the first man to create art. The cafe makes perfect sense. It's meant for the private public. You can be alone yet be surrounded by people. You can witness, listen and taste without the trouble of interacting.

I write this now because I'm currently sitting at a window seat, staring out the window as people trot by (and pull at the door you're not suppose to use but people refuse to read the sign so they just stand there like idiots expecting me to open it for them from the inside). I just sucked the last dreads of my watered down ice coffee, with my homework in front of me (read pages 1-33 in Child-Loving: The Erotic Child and Victorian Culture), resisting the temptation to open my current self-indulging book (A Great and Terrible Beauty by Libba Bray). It's somewhat working.

(Also I wrote this all over my phone! Call me classy).