I was sharing, whining actually, with my DH that I really needed a creative push to get my present book done by deadline. Ever the fixer, he suggested that since the story is about a Seattle barista that I take my laptop into Starbucks and soak up the caffeine saturated atmosphere. Though I prefer my neighborhood Tully's Coffee Shop over the packed Starbucks on the opposite corner, I sallied forth to Starbucks because I now possess a gift card courtesy of my sister.

Yesterday I parked QuickSiver on the end spot at 7:00 a.m. on a November-like dark and rainy morning. Toted my son's hard used old e-Machine laptop into the surprisingly empty shop and ordered a tall mocha, my favorite. Actually, my favorite is how Mary at Tully's makes it--extra hot with a drizzle of caramel on the heap of whip. Yum. I asked where the power points were in the room and the barista pointed to a tiny round table in the corner by the windows at the end of the counter. It has a half wall between it and the rest of the room and is open to the row by the windows. I set up there and began to work, but it wasn't long before some wretch ordered a breakfast ugh with Parmesan cheese that smells like puke when overheated at that time of the morning. I wished for a gas mask but stuck my nose in the coffee cup and inhaled.

And was I getting pages! Oh my yes. My brave barista was having a hard of time of it and that meant I was having a great time putting him in the soup. Wheeeee. Then the shop began to fill up with folks. There were three tiny table lined up with six chairs about ten o'clock from my position that had remained empty until an older, than me I so hope, fellow set his paper down on the middle one and went to get his coffee. When he returned he picked up the paper, walked around to the other side of the table, and staked out the end chair facing me! And proceeded to stare at me for the next forty-five minutes. Instead of handling his most perilous situation, my story barista wanted to talk about that old guy trying to get eye contact and establish an opener with me. Have you ever kept your eyes on one thing for four minutes, not to mention forty-five? Well, yesterday I set a record. Can't say it did much for the page count, but I proved I can focus--my eyes, at least. Finally, the guy picked up his unread paper and ambled out of the place. I breathed and got control of my story barista, damn his hide.

I was flying along, making things oh so difficult for my barista when a gaggle of young mothers settled on the six chairs at those horribly too close little tables. They all had grande cups so I knew they'd be there too long for my taste, and my barista agreed. Five of them were rather sullen and silent. That's probably because the extremely vocal woman nearest me, oh God, shout-lectured one and all about the exciting to her only essential details of her life. I believe I can safely project that all of Starbucks was as bored spitless, if very, very cranky, as I was by the time she finished her freaking grande and lecture series to drag those poor ladies to the outlet shopping center fifteen miles south of there. I think I heard something about scrapbooking or stamping in her endless soliloquy. No one looked happy at that prospect except for those of us remaining in the shop.

Again, I get my barista back into the story and smartassing his way through the next mess. Then the children arrived. One little three or four year old who was clearly raising himself was unleashed on the place. The dear one didn't see me cringing in the corner and so applied his annoying talents to harassing the young couple on the sofa in front of the fireplace and all who unwisely gave him eye contact or a smile. My barista wanted to toss the hellion in the microwave on reheat, but I convinced him that would be counter-productive. The young mother of that thing--or at least I think she might have been a careless giver--would occasionally break off from her conversation with a guy and another young woman to chase the kid down. She was well turned out, very thin and obviously way out of her league trying to discipline that one. She'd given up long ago and was just going through the motions for appearances sake. When she grabbed up the child to hopefully leave, no, to take it to the bathroom, her table mates controlled themselves very well. I expected them to mirror the great disgust building in the room, but they just exchanged meaningful looks and sat stone-faced with little Mona Lisa smiles when the woman and devil's spawn inevitably returned to torture us further.

I packed it in. After three hours, a mediocre mocha, more distraction and noise than I could handle with only caffeine and fat for breakfast, and having written only seven pages of the intended thirteen, I was outta there. I drove home in the rain, remembering that a former critique mate of mine wrote several books in her neighborhood Starbucks. Her best writing advice for beginning writers was to find a coffee shop they liked and bring forth the magic. Wheeeeeeeeeee.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmelinda