I prefer to write outside of my home. There are numerous reasons for this:
- My apartment is small, and I don’t have a “room of one’s own” to write in; I often leave the house to get some privacy (even though I usually go to a place full of people!).
- When the weather is nice, it’s hard to stay inside and write; when the beauty of the day calls to me, I’ll grab my notebooks and/or computer and walk to wherever it is I’ll write that day (and get a bit of exercise, too).
- Often, I have cravings: Dunkin Donuts coffee. A chocolate and nut mix at the local co-op. Or there’s absolutely no food in the house, and I’m hungry. Why not go out and eat and drink and write?
- There are too many distractions at home: my family, of course; a messy, dirty apartment that screams at me to clean it; the television, the phone, the refrigerator, the cat, noisy neighbors. Any number of things to take me away from my desk. Sometimes I write on my computer, but the internet is an alluring distraction–when that happens, I’ll grab just my notebook and get out of the house.
- Natalie Goldberg, my early writing influence, told me to write in different places, and so that’s what I did, and that’s what I still do. It’s what I’m used to. Although I don’t write in laundromats, as she suggested.
So where do I go to write? Here are my favorite spots in my town:
- Greenfield’s Market. My local co-op is a place I’ve been writing in for close to twenty years now. It’s easily my favorite spot; there’s good food and drink, free wi-fi I tend to trust, and two different places to sit and write: downstairs near the sunny windows looking out onto Main Street, or upstairs in the mezzanine which overlooks the entire store (I try not to sit next to the railing–I’ll gaze out and people-watch the whole time if I’m not careful). I’ll drink peach Honest Tea and nibble chocolate trail mix; my friend Vince is often there, working on his haiku or reading his obscure books. He’ll stop by my table and chat for a few minutes, but respects my need for space to work. Familiar strangers surround me, and I feel right at home.
- Dunkin Donuts. I love Dunkin coffee. In the winter, it’s hot decaf with one cream; in summer, it’s iced with one cream. The donuts don’t tempt me, really; it’s all about the coffee. There are three Dunkins in my town, which really doesn’t seem excessive to me. One is within walking distance, and that’s where I usually go. In the morning, there is a large group of seniors who gather there every day to talk and tell stories and laugh. They’ve come to know me, and call out a few pleasantries. They can become quite raucous, but I don’t mind. I’ve learned to block out distraction from the multitudes, the shriek of the coffee grinders, the employees giving each other shit. It’s all background babble, white noise. It’s wonderful. It smells wonderful, and I smell wonderful when I go home, the coffee clinging to me like an aromatic shawl.
- Greenfield Public Library. Sometimes I need to go to the library to search for a book or do some research, and I’ll sit and write for awhile in one of the many comfortable nooks provided. There are the big tables in the main room, near the computers and the check-out desk and the magazine racks; but there are more private places nestled near the stacks, with upholstered chairs and low tables with vases of flowers on them, or a table near a window with a view of familiar buildings, seen from unfamiliar vantage points. It’s quiet, mostly, and being surrounded by books has to be the closest thing to heaven I can think of.
- Greenfield Coffee. I only occasionally frequent this cafe in the center of town, mostly because it’s kind of expensive, and the coffee is darker than I prefer. But I like the wrap-around glass windows looking out at the intersection of town that often steam in winter, and the hardwood floors and the shiny steel espresso makers. It’s fairly small, so I’m lucky to find a seat among the many other solo patrons working on their own projects, on laptops mostly, but some with actual books and notebooks. I feel I’m a part of a special tribe, my tribe, even if I don’t speak a word to them.
My peripatetic writing habit suits me; it’s like leaving home to go to my office to work, except my office is everywhere. I’ve written in doctor’s offices, in my car (not while I’m driving, just in case you’re wondering), at work at my register. I’ve even written at a picnic table on the town common on nice spring days. Come to think of it, I might have written in a laundromat once, a long time ago. With a pen and paper, you can do your work literally anywhere.
If you’re a writer, where do you like to do your work?