A favorite writing spot
at my brother's.


I began to look around for convenient public places to write. I am not a coffee drinker; tea is my libation. Regardless of what steamed in my cup, I like the concept of sitting in a coffee house.

My niece, up until recently worked at a ‘Seattle’s Best Coffee’ in a busy urban setting. One day last year I was visiting her town and sat and watched her in action. The barista is the bartender of the current age. No dark corners and shadows for this ‘counter’ culture hero as they brew their own comforting beverage. I sat at the small round table near the front of the store and watched Elizabeth flit back and forth behind the machine, bouncing in and out of sight, a silk yellow daisy-- lotus like on her bobby pinned ink black hair. At times her generous smile and bright eyes would peer out from the side, not quite able to see over the polished Italian machine, she would engage in conversation with her regulars. Calling out the language of the coffee house, she spoke over the effluent steam and flowing brown liquid. She knew her customer’s names; she knew their drinks, and like a crispy sliver of biscotti, snippets of their lives as she filled their mugs.

Some people that know me were surprised that I had not wholly rejected the big business of Starbucks. But they also know my insatiable curiosity for people and ‘pop’ culture. People watching and pretending to be part of the crowd was research and consumption.

So I came to sit. The beautiful people queued up in an environment where marketing peeks out from every corner. The impeccable service, spit polish shine, and a quality product is perfectly matched to this consumer culture.

Is it inappropriate that I can forgive Starbucks for what they may or may not have done to the neighborhood coffee houses? I have never been one for legislated culture. It must be organic and self supporting – but more on that another time.

During my test phase I started noticing the proliferation of computers. There were many people that came to work, it was not just students with highlighters, coil ring notebooks and textbooks in hand. Does anyone go to the library anymore?

I sampled a few Starbucks, one on my way to work, another at the edge of a shopping plaza. The narrow seating areas and little tables were good for drop-in sessions but I am too self-conscious to write with people looking over my shoulder. The wobbly pedestal tables are especially awkward for my larger than average computer. Einstein’s bagels seemed another good spot. The design gave me a wall to back onto. The buzz and comings and going a soothing white noise. Ultimately though, a subtle guilt set in for taking up a table and nursing a single Iced Tea for a couple of hours.

Then I sampled a Barnes and Noble store, it seemed perfect! Surrounded by books, black lacquer tables and old-fashioned wooden chairs that lent an air of academic credibility. The guilt was held at bay by the knowledge of regular book purchases offsetting the entry fee. Then one day the tables were gone. Pulled into the traffic flow, now piled with pyramids of books to sell. I was no longer welcome as a writer; the chairs remained to encourage readers.

The next stop has become my new writing home. A Borders Books with a Seattle’s Best Coffee at the back. A corner table gives me privacy while affording an un-obstructed view down the store. If I had any complaints, the lack of a plug limits my sessions to the life of my battery. Secondly, month after month, no attention had been given to a burnt out bulb on the track lighting. For longer marathon days, the table by the condiments has a wall plug. And a bonus! My chai latté and tea orders count towards their rewards program. This is starting to sound like a commercial; I would like to assure readers that I am not affiliated in any way with Borders (or Starbucks that owns the SBC brand).

With a spot identified, now comes the choice to make the time.

Even with the extravagance of having my own room and a blessed door to close off from the family, I have accepted that my home is not the place to write.

In the modern vernacular it is a 'home office'. Suitably equipped with a mélange of abandoned furniture. An old gouged Bombay Company writing desk rescued from the scrap heap in a remodel of a long ago employer. The black desk chair - a lucky buy at a silent auction. A hand me down wing back chair, 36” TV, a small Buddhist shrine, and bookshelves to complete the picture.

The term from my childhood would have been a study. I find I cling and use this term frequently. All the rooms in my childhood white, two-story house were appropriately labeled. The ‘Living Room,’ seldom used for anything it seemed at the time. The ‘Dining Room’ with its vast antique table, seating for 12, only used on special occasions.

Family dinner was just after 6:00pm and would draw my two older brothers and I from the ‘Rec Room’ in the basement or our individual Bedrooms, into the kitchen nook to be seated at a curly wrought iron Sundae shop table. The stark white laminate (called arborite in those days) polished to dullness under the constant scrutiny of my mother’s dishcloth.

With the dishes rinsed and tucked away and the garish overhead fluorescent light extinguished, my parents would retire to the ‘den’ to read the evening newspaper and drink their coffee. Later my father would occupy his desk in his ‘study’. The clatter of his ‘adding machine’ becoming quieter over the years as he migrated from mechanical, to first generation digital, then years after to a computer.

Only now do I realize his gift of concentration. Somehow he managed his way through stacks of ledgers and memos as my brothers and I came and went. It surprises me now that we were able to watch as much television as we did, (we had the first color tv in the neighborhood) without distracting him. Then again, in the late 60’s and early 70’s, the programming options were limited as were the times of day you could watch.

In my modern world, it isn’t my children that lift my head from the page and cause my pen to halt. Why else would we have two other televisions and a second computer but to occupy children and create a bubble of isolation for me? The real demon is all the associations that ground me in the practical world and lure me onto other tasks. Bills to pay, files to organize, emails to reply to, naps to be taken, and the worst of all, television shows and movies. My study is a place I will reserve for ‘editor mind’, web research, and managing the details of a modern middle class family home.

Writing for me needs to be in the world amongst many anonymous witnesses.