It seems I have become conditioned to cafe culture. At least from a writing point of view. I’m thinking of this for two reasons. The first is because I took a few days off work a week or so ago, a Wednesday to Friday stretch that added to the weekend gave me five full uninterrupted days for cracking on with the novel. Five days in an empty flat. Total quiet, table and chair by the window, all the lapsang souchong I could drink and a giant pack of plain chocolate digestives. The result? Nothing, but a growing, growling, pacing irritation. In the afternoon of the second day I went to the iCafe on Great Western Road–and instantly the words flowed. Weird or what? See, my normal writing day involves an hour or more in Starbucks before coming into work plus another hour in Costa at lunchtime (if things are flowing well I might also drop into Beanscene on the way home at night). It’s my routine, and it works. And, apparently, God help me if I monkey with it.
The second reason this is in my head right now is because Holly Phillips seems to have discovered the same thing.
Thanks be to the wee man for cafes, eh?