I have nothing planned for today. It’s Sunday, and I want to soak up all the leisure I can before the work week starts tomorrow. I just woke up, and a nap feels like a good idea already. I’d do better drinking a cup of coffee and listening to chill music, which is what I’m doing right now.
The coffee is strong and the music mellow. A good combination, but I’m still sleepy. It’s only 7 AM, so I have a whole day of nothing ahead of me. I will probably do something, though — I have some internet searches for the upcoming novel.
Here’s a picture of Chloe doing what I feel like doing today:
It looks like my summer vacation* is about to end. I have a little over a week until meetings start. In fact, next weekend is my last weekend before school revs up. But I will have a writing retreat in Kansas City that weekend!
Writing retreats are when I spend a weekend some place with cafes where I can spend a good part of the day writing and where I can eat excellent ethnic food. My husband gets coffee and ethnic food out of it**.
I’m working on short stories right now. The stories I’m working on reside in the Hidden in Plain Sight universe, to be published in a future collection. I’d rather write stories for competition/publication in journals and the like, but I don’t feel inspired. To read the first collection and get an intro to the universe, look here.
I will come back Monday just in time for meetings two days later. And the first day of meetings lasts all day and is followed by a picnic***. Summer needs a last hurrah.
* Such that it is. I work all summer, but at least I get to set my own schedule. ** My husband doesn’t write anymore. I wish I could get him to write again, because I think he needs a flow activity in his life. *** The first day of meetings is not a picnic, however.
If you were going to open up a shop, what would you sell?
I have always had the desire to open a cafe. I would serve coffee and coffee drinks, pastries, and a light lunch like sandwiches and soup (I am in the US, so this is what people would ask for.)
In a cafe, one sells more than coffee or food. One sells atmosphere, coffee culture, thirdspace. One provides a place where people meet and find community. I would make sure I provided a welcoming atmosphere, from seating to decor to staff.
My idea is creativity and comfort. Two opposing tensions, but a dynamic mix. I hope to have different modes of coffee making available, and maybe even coffee flights for the curious. But there’s also a coffee of the day or an Americano.
In a perfect world, I would have the capital to put into this, and it would be my retirement job. I don’t. But I can dream, can’t I?
I’m on the road one last day. Travel has gotten old. I will have traveled 2000 miles in a week when this trip is done.
No inspiration yet. Probably because this van is not Starbucks. I miss Starbucks.
I could use a mini-vacation, a weekend trip to Kansas City to write and maybe pet kitties at a cat cafe. Anywhere but right here, where my knees are screaming and I can’t take pain meds.
We got up early to write this morning, having arrived at Starbucks by 6:15. I’ve written 500 words done in two and a half hours, which is slow, but I’ve had to do several searches on Google in the process. I searched mostly on the nutrition status of several wild greens. I’m happy to say that garlic mustard is high in Vitamin C, so after shipping and imports in the US have broken down, people will still be able to get Vitamin C by eating weeds.
I’m writing about the collapse of the United States, after all. How does one prepare for that? Self-sufficiency (which is impossible, it turns out) and barter arrangements. If one anticipates the worst, one can prepare. A collective with a high number of educated individuals can anticipate, so this is not the tension in the group. Instead, they struggle with the fact that they will weather the catastrophic failure of the economy. Their battle is whether to share with others vs hide within themselves. With preternatural entities and a miraculous garden, this is not a trivial matter. A value conflict, with a side of fear.
I have had to do a lot of searches to write this book. Everything Barn Swallows’ Dance does to adapt to a calamitous change, I have to research. Questions like ‘How much wheat do 65 people eat in a year?’, ‘Dry-wash media for biodiesel’, ‘Nutrition in garlic mustard’, and ‘How much tannerite needed to collapse a building?’. (The latter question is one of those that writers have nightmares about, fearing the FBI will show up on the doorstep.)
It took the Internet to entice me to write. Before, I had the same questions to answer, but no way to do it quickly. Whose Hearts are Mountains was a story I started in graduate school, but never finished because I didn’t know what life in a desert was like. Once the Internet matured to the point where I could ask questions, I could write.
I need to go back to writing, but first, I need to find a recipe for garlic mustard pesto.
I’m sitting at home again today, cowering in the air conditioning because “it’s going to be another hot one,” in Midwest parlance. I’m listening to playlists that help me concentrate, hoping they’ll inspire me to finish the last three chapters of Carrying Light.
I’m writing live from Kauffman Center, in an atrium filled with light, feeling underdressed for the occasion. I am on the nerd side of the foyer because I’m here for Sci-Fi Spectacular.
Light-Filled Foyer, sci-fi style.
My husband is here for the music; I’m here for a bucket list item; seeing John DeLancie* in person. No, I won’t get to meet him.
In the meanwhile I’ve just had lunch at Jerusalem Cafe, and before that, coffee and editing at Broadway Cafe. Before that, a ninety-minute drive with classical music. A near perfect day. To be perfect, Richard would have to let me blast Adam Ant** full-blast on the way home.
I’m here in KC for a change of scenery and some writing time at my favorite cafe in town. I’m hoping I feel motivated to write on the story, because I’ve been struggling with that lately. I’ve skipped ahead to the last chapter to write on that, and maybe that’s the problem. Not much happens in the last chapter of a book except the tie up the loose ends. And in this case, a baby is definitely front and center.
I don’t really understand babies. I’m childless by choice; I have never been graced with a maternal instinct. But enough of that; I am sitting in the best cafe in Kansas City.
Broadway Cafe is the real thing, with worn chairs and scuffed walls and young baristas. I don’t know if they do latte art because I’m drinking their coffee of the day, Guatemala. The coffee is roasted and brewed so well that it has notes. It doesn’t just taste like dark roast. If we hadn’t just had breakfast at AC Hotel, we would have some pastries
So from here, I write on the book. Damn babies. What do babies do at 3 months old? They eat, poop, cry, burp and squeeze your finger. How hard can that be? They smile, which is how they get away with eating, pooping, crying, and burping all the time.
And people make burbling noises at them.
Ok, back to grounding myself in my surroundings. I have coffee, and I’m about to write. I’m about to write the sappiest chapter in my life. All it needs is a cute dog. (It’s not going to get a cute dog).
I have become sleepy lately (extending the metaphor). No Big Audacious Goals, just work and writing on a novel I’m afraid is sleepwalking across the countryside. No exciting plans this summer. No tempting opportunities. Nothing that gives my soul a psychic jolt of caffeine (this extended metaphor is getting silly).
I know I should be able to wake myself up, but inertia is so difficult to break. Which is why I need an assist from the Universe. I want this to be a good morning wake up, not a wake-up call in the colloquial sense, or a wake up and smell the coffee. A good gentle shake, or a cat plopping on my chest. Or fireworks, I’d take fireworks. Or someone yelling from the doorway.
In the meantime, I will see if I can make myself that metaphorical coffee.
Words Like Me 