Random Coffee Shop Novel Notes

The barista compliments me on my 99-cent corduroy coat. “Made in Yugoslavia,” I tell her. It’s not clear to she knew what Yugoslavia was or had ever heard the word spoken.

I am in faceless coffee shop in a totalitarian city. Everyone is paying handsomely to be monitored.

The coffee shop novel is starting to cohere into something utterly unpublishable.

A jogger jogs by. Bad form. Hands too high.

The road beckons. Klamath Falls sounds good. I’ve never seen it. What do people do there? Is their joy or seething in the populace?

Reunions are afoot. I relish them.

A reader of the rain book reached out to me and called me a “translator” of rain. I love it when readers reach out. It does take effort. I am fortified when I learn that my writing still connects to people. The stories of how they come to find my books are equally inspiring.

A woman wearing a black tennis skirt walks in and I do a doubletake. She is clearly a player; I can tell by the sturdy quads. She’s not wearing the skirt out of some urban irony.

Someone walks in with a spiral notebook. Then another. And another! It’s a spiral notebook revolution. I am writing this in a spiral notebook. Will they one day go extinct?

The OTA manuscript is completed. Now what? I think this book has unique Oregon value.

I miss my husky. I had another dream about her the other night. I miss our maniacal runs down the beach in rain.

Two men behind me are discussing their tech high jinks.

A recent graduate from college is interviewing for some progressive internet job, assuming there is such a job.

I’m making all this up from the coffee shop. I have a strong proclivity for fiction in these joints.