Five or more years ago (here in London; maybe ten if you live in, say, Seattle), if you used a laptop in a coffee shop you were That Guy. You know the one. Him, there NO DON’T LOOK HE’LL WANT TO TELL US ABOUT HIS SCREENPLAY. Now, if you’re on your own without a laptop, just having coffee and cake - now you’re That Guy. As a friend of mine put it, “What’s going on there? He’s got, like, a latte or something. Oh my God, he’s just drinking it!”
This tilt has actually worked out well for me. I live in one of the most hipsterical parts of London, in a street which hosts an “organic” market on Saturdays. For the first few weeks of its existence it was called a farmers’ market, but the lack of tractors and wellies and the fact that there are no sushi farms in the area were undeniable. There are 5 (FIVE) decent, independent coffee shops in the street, each with its own merits; best food, best cakes, best music, best for a venomous caffeine hit. These are my offices; I’m The Artist Formerly Known as That Guy.
Most writers have published a guide to writing; sometimes a whole book, sometimes a short, simple list. Recently I’ve stumbled across suggestions from Stephen King, JG Ballard, Chuck Palahniuk, Scarlett Thomas and Michael Marshall Smith. One thing they have in common is motivational techniques; 45 minutes’ work, 15 minutes’ break; set a timer; promise yourself a reward. I use the Nike principle: Outsource the work to Malaysian sweatshops JUST DO IT. Work (or rather its result) is its own reward. While the physical act of writing is frustrating - using the three middle fingers of my half-functional left hand, my flat out “quick brown fox” typing rate is a blistering fifteen words per minute - the satisfaction of telling a story well is immense. Millions of bloggers and Twitter users experience this pleasure regularly; Twitter in particular can provide frequent little bursts of flavour, like that exploding candy that you really, really shouldn’t give to your dog.
So. Here I am, sitting in the coffee shop, writing about sitting in the coffee shop, writing, for my blog which is about a book that (right this moment) I’m clearly not writing. It’s all a bit inward-looking isn’t it? Meta-meta, po-po-mo, I don’t know. Time to pick up my figurative quill, methinks innit. Onward and outward.
