I write to you today from a branch of Caffe Nero, large hot chocolate at my side (with cream, naturally. I don’t believe in starving myself in January). I’ve decided to try to get on with The Novel. I need to stop moaning about not doing it. And just do it. I can. And I will. Yet 2015 be the year of The Novel. Wouldn’t that be something wonderful?
I love writing in coffee shops. I’ve mentioned this in creative writing classes, somewhat embarrassed, knowing how pretentious it sounds. Yes, I like to write with an expensive drink at my side. I like the murmur of people around me. I actually find it less distracting than a quiet room at home. I’m not tempted to start doing the ironing, or check out Netflix. I feel I have purpose here. It’s nice to see other people with their laptops, even if they’re just watching videos of cats, or stalking their ex-girlfriends on Facebook. I can pretend they’re fellow creative types. Maybe I do like being a part of that tribe… You see them in cities, with their big geek glasses, their Macs, their trendy Urban Outfitters garb. Maybe they’ve plonked a hefty tome next to them, a heavily-thumbed copy of Dostoevsky or Sartre or the complete works of Coleridge. What a fashion statement. I don’t look nearly so cool, but then I’m in a quiet suburbany backwater, so nobody else does either. We can pretend.
Leave my silly aspirations of life as a trendy intellectual aside. I’M GETTING STUFF DONE. This happens so rarely! I have IDEAS and everything. It’s wonderful. Definitely worth the price of a large hot chocolate. So, without further ado, I’m going to get the hell on with it.