I locked myself out of my house today. In a hurry, trying to get the dog to poop, taking out trash, stacking laundry from the washer. So, my wonderful girlfriend, who has a key, sped over from a few suburbs away and let me in. She almost was pulled over by a cop when she made a U-turn so she could get to me quicker.
While I waited, I worked in a nearby coffee shop, writing. Espresso machines whirring, clinking and clanging of silverware and mugs, laughter, talking, chatter—the consistent din of a caffeine club. But, with all that noise, I wrote, I thrived, I fed off of it all.
Are you a writer who has to work in a vacuum? I hear that Jonathan Franzen writes in a room with no electronics, not WiFi, nothing but a chair and and table. Nothing. Empty. I could do that, too, I guess. But the music of lives around me seems to fuel my writing. I’ve always wanted one of those writing sheds in my yard, a cabin in the back where I can steal away to write, like Dylan Thomas’ boathouse. But maybe not. Or maybe construct one, but pipe in coffee cafe noise just to make my writing home.
Where do you write? Paint? Sculpt? Create? In the noise or in the silence?