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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.