I wake up each morning, get dressed and head to my local coffee shop. For the past year, I have been calling coffee houses throughout Los Angeles and in other American cities my office. Armed with my laptop, I walk to the local Starbucks to join the legions of other writers who pen stories and screenplays in a caffeine-induced state.
Each morning I stand in line to order my coffee. Nothing fancy, just a grande drip, or maybe a venti iced coffee when the Southern California weather gets warm. But mostly, I look forward to the hot coffee. It is what arouses the senses each morning. Its warmth shields my body from the blasted air conditioning that inevitably seems to be on even during the coldest storm.
It is in these satellite offices that I allow the voyeur in me to walk amongst the patrons—eavesdropping. This is when the ideas come. Listening to others explain their lives to friends or strangers. These are the stories that make Chicago, Miami, Portland, Maine, New Brunswick, New Jersey, and Los Angeles come to life. These are the stories that fuel the essays and articles in my head.
This is a large departure for me. Dressed in what has become the LA-style signature of leisure—t-shirt, cargo pants and flip-flops—I walk to my new-found work place. My office consists of people having creative thoughts inside themselves. Milling them over and working plot lines out in their heads. It is unlike the composition I used to engage in, discussing story ideas with my fellow editors and manipulating the words of writers. Today I write and when I am finished, I will let it go.
Most of my coffeehouse colleagues are writers too. Most of them are screenwriters or novelists; usually I am the only non-fiction writer among them. There are no politics in our office, only discussions of the ones involving Obama or Arnold Schwarzenegger. The closest thing to drama is when the tables and chairs are re-arranged. On those mornings, we collectively moved everything back once the morning rush subsides.
Many of us are clad in headphones, drowning out the conversations that would draw out the voyageurs in us. The music that pumps into our ears fuels the tempo of our typing and the progression of our thoughts into our laptops. What were once words floating through our minds become black and white characters in stories, plays, television pilots and magazine articles. Eventually, we will agonize over these words. Their use reviewed by us, the writers, and then their fate in the final product determined by our editors—whether they are the decision-makers or our writing groups.
When we break, it is to discuss possible opportunities or the day’s politics. But these times are limited because there is writing to do. Every word, every idea, every minute pays for homes, food and coffee. It’s the caffeine-induced states keep us writing.
