Cafe writing

A common sight in coffee shops is the proliferation of people working on laptops while enjoying brunch and a cappuccino. I never lean over to see what they are doing, but I like to imagine that I am sitting next to the next Ernest Hemingway or Stephenie Meyer and that some of their creativity will disperse in my direction.

The phenomenon is a progression from the days when writers scribbled and pondered in cafes and bars - Dickens wrote in a London pub, Hemingway in a Parisienne cafe. Without the distraction of a companion, the animated buzz around you seems to stimulate the thought process without your having to formulate a reply or pay attention to what someone is saying. You are merely an observer. Writing in longhand rather than tapping keys draws the words from inside, down your arm and through the pen and afterwards you can barely remember having written them.

I myself have put pen to paper in Paris, at the Cafe de la Comedie next to the Louvre. The experience was everything I hoped it would be. Tiny tables, 30cm of space in between, elbow to elbow, dark mahogany, huge mirrors and chandeliers, massive bar counter, tiny winding stairway to the top floor with the usual disgusting toilet facilities. About 6 months before, I had written a scene in a Paris cafe and the characters were dancing to a particular song that I named in my book, and the singer. The most remarkable thing about the experience was that while I sat there, that very song by that very singer played over the sound system.

Synchronicity. Magic.