The Pear Tree Blog

Posts Tagged ‘Coffee’

When I was young and aspired to be a writer, I had a vision of a life. It was a naively romantic vision and I find myself cringing as I share it with you now.

I saw myself set up in a big old house, ivy climbing up the side, seated at a table piled high with old books and several half-filled coffee cups – just enough room to accommodate a small typewriter (my vision predates the mainstreaming of computers). In front of me would be a large window with a sweeping view. The words, of course, would just pour out from my fingertips – clickity clack. When I wasn’t writing the Great Canadian Novel there, I would be camped out at my favourite coffee shop, Hemingway-like, inspiration hitting me like a double shot of espresso.

I’ve long since outgrown the first fancy. I’ve learned first hand that few freelance writers can afford big old ivy bound homes (unless they’re married to someone who actually makes some decent cash), that sweeping views can be unwelcome distractions and that there’s nothing ideal or easy about pouring your soul out onto a page (or screen).

I still like the idea of writing in coffee shops, however. You’ve probably read of my love for a good cuppa, but it goes deeper than that. Perhaps it’s the aroma, or the warm colours most coffee shops boast, that effects me. Maybe it’s the hum of conversations going on – an exchanging of ideas (some of them even good). Or just being in a relaxing place that allows your mind to decompress and free flow. Most likely it’s a combination of things that work together to stimulate my endorphins and get my creativity going.

Not that I’ve ever written anything of significance in a coffee shop. Mostly, I end up tweaking my To-Do lists, organizing my agenda or, well, laying my pen down and day dreaming while I sip slowly on a latte and watch what other people are doing.

I did write a news story in a Starbucks, once, a few years ago when I was covering a story in Penticton for The Province and needed access to wireless internet. I had to suppress the creative flow, however, since it was a sad story about a woman who had been murdered the night before.

Still. It was with this background that I learned about a new writing contest called Coffee Shop Author. The idea is to write the better part of a novel, book of short stories, collection of poetry or creative non-fiction in a favourite coffee shop. I think my skin tingled when I first read about it. It was like it was made for me.

Me. A writing machine, fuelled by good coffee and the occasional muffin. Sitting by the window, stopping every now and then to look out at the bustling street scene while mulling over a particularly catchy turn of phrase. Oh dear, it’s starting again – the romantic visioning. The idealizing.

Alas, with a small baby, an active toddler and a still-to-be-house-broken puppy all in my care, joining their ranks and spending several hours a day typing and slurping, slurping and typing, is not in the scope of reality any more than my ivy tower fantasy. At least not this year.

Although there’s still a little corner of me that says, “hang it all, just drop down the $30 and hit the coffee shop at night.” I just wouldn’t see much of my husband before the end of April (the deadline for submissions). I have until 15 March to think about it (the deadline for getting in on it).

It’s not that I have a story to write, short, novel or otherwise. It’s not that I want to win a trip to the Fernie Writers Conference. It’s not that I want that non-existent story to be published (okay, that I do want, eventually). I suppose I just want to live, if even for a month, a fortnight or a few days, to live that old ideal – what I once thought was a writer’s life. Before I became a writer and found out that life as a writer is just life. But with longer words. Because maybe there’s a Great Canadian Novel in me after all – I just haven’t found the right backdrop to help me tap into it…

Ahhh, café.

I feel it percolate my spirit as I perch in front of my computer screen, green cup firmly in hand. My eyes close as I take a sip, and a smile passes, unexpectedly, across my face.

Mellow, warm, inviting, the aroma of freshly brewed joe is one that’s been pretty foreign to my abode these last, oh, 14 or so months. Ever since I knew I was pregnant with Baby No. 2. And it’s been hard – oh, so hard. When I was pregnant with my son, it was easy. I simply had no desire for coffee. Or tea, hot chocolate, chai … but the last time around I wanted it – ooooh I wanted it. And, since delivering back in August, I’ve occasionally indulged myself in a cup – although I’m trying to not make it a habit while I’m still nursing.

Today is one of those rare days, though, that I have given in to temptation. A day where I just really needed some liquid inspiration.

I should stress that I’m not actually physically addicted to coffee. I can down several cups at a time with nary a jitter to be found. And I can drink the stuff every day for a year and stop cold turkey without ever experiencing a headache. No, my addiction is mental – or maybe more emotional. It’s the culture of coffee that hooks me. Good coffee, it goes without saying. Fresh brewed, from the bean, warm, rich, aromatic. It stimulates good conversations. It pairs with chocolate, vanilla and desserts of all manner and make. It accessorizes rainy days, snow days and sunshine. It gets the creative juices flowing.

So, at a loss for what to write, but wanting to write something, I scooped a heap of decaf Verona into my brushed metal Cuisinart coffee maker and brewed myself a cup.

It didn’t take long for the smell to fill the house, giving it a mellow, coffee shop aura.

Then, five gladsome beeps later, it was ready. Just hearing the coffee poured into my cup, gurgling joyfully all the way up, made me want to weep with the pleasure of it.

It appeals to all of my senses – sight (is there a more comforting colour than mocha?), sound, smell and taste (obviously), and even touch as I clutch the warm cup in my hands.

And now I sit and slurp, and words again flow easily out of my fingers and onto the screen. The coffee has worked its magic and I again have something to write about.