10/23/01
Just call me "the chai guy."
That's the nickname given to me by some members of the Borders Books and Music staff, for obvious reasons. But I guess that's going to happen when you order the same drink (medium hot chai to go*) for two years straight, and stay in the cafe for 5 hours reading and reading and reading and making notes, notes, notes. At first I felt guilty, coming up to read for free instead of buying the book or magazine. But I spend at least $30 a month there, and at least that much per month on those chais and other cafe items, so I'm doing my part for their bottomline and the American economy in general. But I've been ordering hot chocolates recently, just to show them that, hey, I can be as unpredictable as the next guy.** There's also been a certain nip in the air, that lack of humidity, that crispness that embraces fall, and the ole hot chocolate just seems like the right thing to do, as Wilford Brimley would say.
I see all the regulars here, and see many people dragging in their laptops to write their college essay on Voltaire, or finish up that monthly business report on the Johnson merger, or finish up the latest chapter on their novels (I think Gallup just did a poll that revealed that currently, every single person over the age of 18, and a handful under, is writing a novel). But it all seems so...wrong. It's one thing to sit here and write in your angsty journal or make notes or doodle, all of which are fine, but if you're coming in here to write your novel? Big mistake. You're not a writer, you're someone who mistakes the job of writing with the hobby of writing. You can't write novels or anything else seriously with people talking all around you, the cappuccino machine making a noise that breaks the sound barrier, and a dozen other distractions that surround you at Borders (not to single them out, it's the same for Barnes and Noble, or Starbucks, or your local spot). If you were truly writing a novel, you'd be locked in your office or room, typing away at the computer or typewriter or writing on a notepad, alone and frustrated, maybe listening to something on the stereo. Sure, bookstore cafes give you that intoxicating atmosphere of literature and writing: all those books, people talking about books, the smell of books, the people around you writing and typing and turning pages. Even the music (usually jazz or folk or standards) that falls down from the speakers up above gets you in the mood. But it's all an illusion. That atmosphere doesn't help your writing, and it certainly isn't the right atmosphere in which to write.
This totally unexpected, completely unasked for piece of advice was brought to you by Sam Adams lager, currently perched on my desk.
Random thought: remember the good old days, when the only thing we had to worry about was nuclear war and devastation?
By the way, here's the latest on the book: publication has been pushed back until January. Yeah, I know. (Insert many apologies here). Let's just say that a bizarre mixture of events have made this the only solution. Is that vague enough, while at the same time sounding mysterious and unhelpful? OK. In the meantime, I do have two new articles at Ironminds, here and here. Lots of new stuff coming here to the site in December, including the new "Letters" section, the long-awaited "Clipart Fiction Theater," and, to celebrate the 5th Anniversary of this site (in January), a free novel. Yeah, free! Just sign up for the monthly newsletter below in that little Topica box for info on that and everything else that's happening.
What about the free gifts, you ask? Christmas is coming up quicker than you might realize (if the decorations and trees that are ALREADY UP at my local drugstore are any indication - now the Christmas stuff is right next to the Halloween masks and candy), so I'm going to time their mailing so you have them then.
See you Monday.
-----
*Though I always stay, I get the chai in a paper cup, with cover, "to go." It's just easier to drink, no spillage, no chance of getting a glass that wasn't cleaned enough, and I never know when I'm going to have to leave suddenly and don't want to take the time to pour it into a paper cup. My God, am I explaining this too much? Jeez.
**Great. The excitement in my life has become ordering something different in a cafe. Ooooooooooo, I live on the edge.
Back to Bob Sassone.com