Coffee Shop Writer Dreams


It’s been a bad week. My one too many full weekends hit me hard on Sunday when I had to get up early for a charity run. I love the run and cause, I hate the hour. I haven’t felt well since Sunday afternoon and this morning my body decided that I do in fact have a cold. I’m forcing myself to believe that the presentation of acute symptoms means I’m on the mend. Also? This is the second blog post I’ve last minuted this week and I really hate doing that.

I’m tired. I’m grumpy. I’m emotionally drained for so many reasons. And I feel like a failure because I’m behind with my new course and I haven’t written one fiction word yet this week.

In an attempt to get on top of things, I hunted through old Anxiety posts for topic inspiration while trying to stay upright at work. I came across one Kate wrote a few months ago. I didn’t have quite the reaction to it that the post was supposed to elicit; all I could think about was that I wish I lived close enough to a coffee shop to park my butt in a chair and actually get something done.

Despite my best attempts to make my room an interruption-free-zone, it’s too easy to let all of life’s million and one things make themselves important when I’m at home. Distractions abound and I feel guilty, or harassed, or stressed if I don’t complete my routine activities around my house. I have so much on my to do list and I simply can’t seem to find enough time in the week—let alone the bloody day—to get everything done.

Yes, I’m my own worst enemy much of the time. I’ve been revelling in distractions lately—like social media on my phone when I should be doing something else—and I can’t seem to snap myself back into focus mode. I’ve been saying that a lot lately. I need to delve into that.

I’m wondering if it would be worthwhile for me to pack up my computer and notebooks at least once a week and drive the 20 or so minutes to the nearest coffee shop for an hour or so. I just know that trying to replicate the setup in my house is not going to work because I’m going to feel pressured to work on something “more important” than writing.

I’m tired of robbing myself of time to create; I’m ready to embrace the identity of a coffee shop writer.


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