As much as I might like to, I can’t write in coffee shops. Not fiction anyway, nothing with dialogue.
It isn’t that I’m distracted by the rumble and the clatter of the coffee and its patrons – that I quite enjoy. To the contrary, it’s me. I would make an absolute fool of myself.
The thing about writing dialogue, is that it’s only half controlled. Its part created and part heard. I’m prone to think it’s a little like being schizophrenic on purpose. And in writing dialogue I make all sorts of wild gestures, saying the words to myself. Not that I say them out loud exactly, more like mouthing the words… emphatically. A lip-sync with the shadows of my own creation.
Granted, Madison has its fair share of interesting personalities dotted about in public places… And I do enjoy my own eccentricities, feeling no embarrassment at my methods… I’d just rather not be the crazy at the corner table.
So I read there, in a giant chair, soaking in the caffeinated kaleidoscope.
And write, instead, at home.