So after a couple of weeks of going to The Office (Starbucks or Gypsy Den) like a job, every morning after I drop Trav at school, I realized that I was getting no exercise–unless you count carrying the laptop from the car to the table. I used to walk first thing and then tried working at home, to no avail.

Which is why I started working at a cafe.

But then, no exercise.

So I’ve adjusted things a bit. Now I walk as soon as I drop Trav at school, come home, shower, dress and then go to Starbucks. And a different Starbucks at that. One right up the street. I didn’t want to go there because I don’t want to be recognized by people in the neighborhood. But in mid-morning, I doubt that will happen. (Most moms from school–and dads–get their Starbucks fix right after they drop off their kids. There are no other writers that I know of…)

So while this Starbucks up the street has lots of women with surgically enhanced boobies in workout outfits prancing by on their way to the rest room, it doesn’t have the corporate workers wearing ID tags around their necks, marching in to get their coffee. It’s always something, right?

I almost didn’t make it today. I awoke at 4:00 a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep until after 5:00. When some orchestra or another on the clock radio blasted me awake at 6:21, what I really wanted to do was go back to sleep.

Then Travis came into the bedroom, told me he was going to take a shower and I willed myself to get up and start his breakfast.

But I mulled not even getting changed, driving him to school in my polka dot pajamas and fuzzy pink slippers, come home and rest.

But then I told myself: Only two hours. You only have to work for two hours. Walter Mosley was in my head. He was on my show yesterday talking about his new book, which I love: This Year You Write Your Novel. His work ethic can make the best of us feel guilty. He says you should write every day. You should not miss one day.

I agree in theory, but on weekends, it doesn’t work for me. There is weekend stuff—things with Travis, church, the flea market, schtuff, and more schtuff.

So this morning, after I made Travis breakfast, a PP&J sandwich for his lunch (that’s all he wants!), washed and dressed and got myself and my writing things together, I took him to school and let my vow to work five days a week on my novel draw me to Starbucks near UC-Irvine.

I ordered Awake! tea, took it to a round cherry wood colored table and sat before my laptop.

Next to me a student was online. That’d be easy, mindless, fun, I thought.

But I vowed to not check email here at The Office.

And so I got to work.

Wednesday morning at Starbucks.

A wall of windows opens onto an expansive courtyard with tables, benches, and red geraniums that pop out against the gray day. Beyond, on the street, commuters flock to the companies that surround this Starbucks and to UC-Irvine, just down the street.

“He’s So Fine” blasts over the speakers.

The sounds of barista’s voices: “Rachel!” “Emilio, Nonfat mocha grande!” “Tall nonfat cappucino!”

Across the room a man in a white shirt and groomed beard tears the paper sleeve holding his slice of zucchini bread, smears butter on the bread, and takes a bite. Then he sips from what looks like iced tea on his left as a steaming double-cupped coffee sits to his right. He dunks his bread into the hot drink and chews as he wipes his fingers with brown napkins. He dunks another piece, chews, gazes through the window, and dunks again.

I should stop studying him, and turn my attention inward to my novel. But I have been working since I arrived. I copied all of my chapters to one file because it has been a major pain in the behind trying to find certain scenes or lines of dialogue: Did the mother character say that, and if she did, where? Does Starletta’s friend, Madeline, ever show up in the flesh or only over the phone? Does Quinn have a blond hair to his chin or gray gelled porcupine-quill like hair?

So many things to lose track of in a novel. Flannery O’Connor said fiction is messy. Indeed. I still have separate chapters, too, but each time I revise one, I will copy it to the “entire revise” document for when I need to search, and find.

One of the perks of publishing a book is meeting people you would probably never otherwise meet. My new friend Sherry, a talented writer whom I met at an event where I spoke last year, asked me to speak to a group of professional, fundraising women in La Habra.

So last night I drove north—sometimes crept–on various freeways and streets, past Disneyland, past Angel Stadium.

The din of the group flowed onto the sidewalk as I headed up the walk to the front door.

The group crowded in the living room and kitchen of a member’s home. There were prominent women in the community—some whose families had streets named after them.

And they wanted to hear what I had to say. Sometimes, when I’m speaking to certain groups, I have a sort of out-of-body experience. I flash back to being lil Barb who almost quit high school, who, for a time, circled the drain, who, for a time, had friends who were bad to the bone, getting arrested, being sucked down the drain.

And somehow I bypassed—ahem, was plucked?—away, rescued from the nowhere path I was on, from that sort of life. (Was it grace or my Guardian Angel? Was it serendipitous? I tend to go with grace…) And somehow I made something of myself. Something more than what I was headed for, anyway, even if I feel I still have a ways to go.

One of the best parts of speaking to groups is inspiring people to follow a dream, whatever that dream may be. It sounds so hokey, so corny, and yet, it’s hard to figure out what the point of it all is without dreams and aspirations, without something to aspire to, however simple. Because even if I never move any further along my path, never attain that which I wish to attain, what I’ve been given is more than I ever expected I’d have, and I’m at a better place than I expected at my lowest point.

And now, the next morning, at Starbucks, as I write this (and save as a Word doc to upload later), as I drink white tea bought using the gift card that the group gave me, a sweet token for coming to speak, I feel grateful for small kindnesses, and large. New friends, the chance to inspire, gift cards—all perks of publishing a book. Thanks, Sherry….

I’m back at Starbucks. It’s not so perky here today. An old gray sheet hangs below the Southern California sunshine, making it cozy inside with the South American music playing, lights hanging from the black ceiling, the clink of cups and din of conversation. It helps that there are no waitpersons here as there are at the Gypsy Den. No one walking up to me asking if I’m okay, if there’s anything I want. Just to write, I want to say, willing to pay to just sit without being bothered by the nice woman with the short hair and skimpy top, so young and worried looking.

I felt guilty at the Gypsy Den for not buying more so I’d leave a larger tip than was required. But here, at Starbucks, you step up to the counter. You order. You hand over your Starbucks gift card, drop a quarter into the Plexiglass container, and you’re done. No one comes up to you as you revise revise revise and asks if you’re okay. No one cares.

Oh, both places have their advantages. I love the eclectic quality of the Gypsy Den. I like the soft cushiony booth seating here at Starbucks. Like how there’s more room to spread out my papers.

It makes me all the more want that writers’ space. I will call a Realtor this week and see if such a place is possible

On another note, here’s an interesting story about bestsellers in theNew York Times. It reminds me of what’s been said before: that no one knows why some books make it and others don’t.

I’m back at Starbucks. It’s not so perky here today. An old gray sheet hangs below the Southern California sunshine, making it cozy inside with the South American music playing, lights hanging from the black ceiling, the clink of cups and din of conversation. It helps that there are no waitpersons here as there are at the Gypsy Den. No one walking up to me asking if I’m okay, if there’s anything I want. Just to write, I want to say, willing to pay to just sit without being bothered by the nice woman with the short hair and skimpy top, so young and worried looking.

I felt guilty at the Gypsy Den for not buying more so I’d leave a larger tip than was required. But here, at Starbucks, you step up to the counter. You order. You hand over your Starbucks gift card, drop a quarter into the Plexiglass container, and you’re done. No one comes up to you as you revise revise revise and asks if you’re okay. No one cares.

Oh, both places have their advantages. I love the eclectic quality of the Gypsy Den. I like the soft cushiony booth seating here at Starbucks. Like how there’s more room to spread out my papers.

It makes me all the more want that writers’ space. I will call a Realtor this week and see if such a place is possible

On another note, here’s an interesting story in the New York Times that repeats what’s been said before: that no one knows why some books make it and others don’t.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/05/13/business/yourmoney/13book.html?pagewanted=1&ei=5124&en=f9f7fb835704005e&ex=1336881600&partner=permalink&exprod=permalink