It’s a rainy day when I duck into a local coffee house in Bethesda’s main shopping district. Three Europeans follow me in and their discussion about what they should drink is a bit intoxicating. Their accents are thick. But when the smaller of the two men announce to the guy behind the counter that they will have three small cappuccinos, something about their order seems so European to me. Maybe in this land of blended coffee drinks that carry the caloric weight of a meal, their choice seems civilized. Perfect for this local shop that roast their coffee locally in Rockville, Maryland.

With the dark wood, granite counters and red walls, I expect there to be an open mike with a guy playing guitar. But, no. Instead the guy behind the counter walks by. “I will be in the lavatory, coming up with a another story. Yo!” and he answers the phone. Seems a bit out of place with the Sheryl Crow playing over the speakers and the couples putting their heads together discussing future plans and the Europeans who are enjoying their espresso drinks and engaging in polite conversation as the thunder grumbles and the rain drips from the clouds on this warm and humid May day.

There’s a teddy bear head and a stuffed moose head hanging on the wall over a table and chairs that are the perfect size for munchkins. A little blond boy who can’t be more than 3-years-old plays with his mom as exercisers, Safeway workers, PhDs and dressed-down business men walk up to the counter. A gentleman with spectacles and a gray handle bar mustache takes orders and serves up muffins. His flow of customers is steady; it’s 8:30AM on a Friday morning. There is no buzz or frenetic pace. Just people coming getting their coffee and going about their way.

I sit next to a stone fireplace hidden from the expresso machine. I’ve taken this refuge for three days as I’ve taken advantage of the free WiFi and enjoyed the cheerful voices of the men working behind the counter. I could have choosen one of the large leather chairs but I like my spot. It allows me to see the diverse clientele of this homey place. And the guys seem to know most of the patrons and the ones they don’t they are just as friendly with. In many ways, this place is the anti-thesis of the hip beatik stereotype of coffee houses—especially with the play area in the back. Just a few miles from DC, this store has none of the pomp and circumstance that would come from powerful patrons. Even though the powerful could be those that work at the National Institutes of Health that is located just down the street.

Above the counter today’s offerings are described like fine wine. The lighter roast, Costa Rica, is described as milk chocolate, black cherry and creamy. Sounds like dessert. Daybreak, the natural decaf, is floral, nutty and citrusy, while the darker roast is syrupy with hints of fruit and wild honey. The art of coffee tasting may have found a home again.

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.