Writing in Public

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You may have seen them.  The writers, sitting in coffee shops and cafés – Starbucks, a Barnes & Noble or Borders, or just some neighborhood coffee shop, clacking away at their laptops, trying to get down the word in an attempt to thwart the isolation of being holed up in their apartments as they write their projects, whatever they may be.  I can understand this of course, but I tend not to do this – not for any particular reason other than the fact that I get easily distracted people watching.  The cliché of the writer, sitting in the coffee shop or café, chiseling away at their novel, short story, screenplay or whatever else, seems ubiquitous these days, does it not?  I don’t begrudge anyone who does this, of course.  We all find our comfort zone, the place where we can feel creative and let it all go.  Some need to be out of the house, among other people, others need to be locked away, isolated, alone.  I tend to be the latter type.  Sometimes I tend to go a little stir crazy and I need to get out of this apartment of mine but at the same time, especially if I’m on a roll, don’t want to stop.  So the thought of taking the ol’ laptop with me to a coffee shop or a café somewhere isn’t far from my mind.  The main reason why I probably don’t do this that often is that 1) I get distracted easily and 2) I’m a smoker – and there isn’t a single place in New York City where you can have a cup of coffee and a smoke, including those with outdoor spaces (there are few exceptions, though).  So, just for the sake of comfort, really, I tend to write at home, alone, at my desk, where I can do what I want.

There was a time where I did write in public.  Back in the earlier part of the last decade, I used to frequent this café in TriBeCa, a small coffee shop where at the time you could still smoke a cigarette if you wanted to (the antismoking laws didn’t yet cover everywhere), where you could listen to some good music – mostly Jazz but some contemporary stuff too – and generally be left alone to do what you wanted to do.  I was there nearly every morning around 10am, with a pad of paper and I would longhand what I could.  Later on in the evening, I would go home and type up everything I did for the day.  I wrote about a third of “November Rust” there.

Not that these mornings were without distractions, of course.  There used to be this one guy who was there every morning with me.  A young, Persian-American immigration lawyer who used to sit a few tables behind me and read his newspaper.  Nearly every day, he’d come over to me and plop down and ask me what I was doing.  I would tell him, he would just nod his head, pretending to give a shit, then eventually make his way back to his table, read his paper, chat on his cell phone, making appointments, and whatever else.  Every day this would happen.  Without fail.

The thing that always struck me as odd about it was that he really didn’t seem to be all that interested in what I was doing.  I was more a source of amusement for him, as if he had never seen anyone doing this before in his life.  He would ask the same question, day in and day out: “What are you doing there?” and I would, day in and day out, tell him and he’d just nod as he always did, make some small talk, then go about his business.  I began to wonder perhaps that he forgot, every day, that he had asked me the very same thing the morning before.  Either that, or he was just being the typical New York City douche bag, unable to mind his own business and insist on inserting himself into people’s space for his own amusement.  I really didn’t care what or why he was doing it but I have to admit I wanted to be left alone – that is, unless he decided to dispense with the small talk and have a normal conversation with me.  It reminded me of those stupid kids I knew in high school, who just had to ask what band was on my T-shirt, just so they could shake their heads and feel superior by making fun of it.

That was the last time I ever did any writing in public.  It seemed that whenever I would do it, someone would always want to know what I was doing.  Not to make conversation, though.  Just to butt in, to satisfy some curiosity.  Ninety-nine percent of the time, they never really wanted to talk – just to know what you were up to.  I found it distracting, annoying and eventually, I just went back to my usual routine of writing at home.

For those who write, it’s hard to explain to people how serious you are about what you are doing.  Not that I didn’t have the time, or wouldn’t make the time for anyone who genuinely wanted to talk.  It’s not like I sat there with these barriers up or anything like that but for me, there was always this constant stream of the inquisitive, as if what I was doing was so unique, that in any coffee shop around New York there weren’t hundreds and hundreds of writers, would-be writers, playwrights, screenwriters, etc doing the very same thing.  I failed to see why it seemed so unique whenever I did it.

Another reason why I usually don’t write in public anymore is because the city is just too damn crowded these days and to find a quiet spot where you can concentrate – or even find a place to sit down – is becoming increasingly rare.  I like the idea of being able to work outside of the house.  It does open you up to possibly meeting someone who may share your interests and perhaps even meet others who share your passion for what you are doing.  Lord knows there will be many around you – even your closest friends – who don’t truly understand what you are trying to accomplish.  As a friend of mine once said, to write is to live a fairly lonely existence.  It would be great to meet others who share your passion but much of the time it isn’t as easy as one would think.  What about writing workshops?  Perhaps.  Never really had the desire for that either but I won’t say I wouldn’t do that one day.  For the most part, I find that getting the word down in the comfort of your own space where you can concentrate, do what you wish, without any real distractions, is the way to go, at least for me.  The feeling of isolation does become much at times.  Not that I never go out – far from it – but when I’m out, I’m out and nothing gets done, although I am constantly thinking about what the next scene is going to be, or some idea of where the story can go.  Sometimes just being out and about, you’ll see something that may trigger an idea, or a character, etc.

Case in point:  The Perisan-American Immigration lawyer who used to bug me every morning.  He eventually made his way into “November Rust” – a short scene, one that probably didn’t need to be there, but I wanted to “immortalize” him in some way.  Somehow, I managed to figure out a way to stick him into the narrative.  So I suppose it wasn’t all bad.

He has no clue and most likely never will either.

I love it when things like that happen.

Julian Gallo (39 Posts)

Born and raised in New York City. I am a musician/writer/painter who has poems and short stories published in about 40 magazines and journals throughout the United States, Canada and Europe and also has 12 books under his belt:
"Standing On Lorimer Street Awaiting Crucifixion" (Alpha Beat Press, 1996), "The Terror of Your Cunt is The Beauty of Your Face" (Black Spring Press, 1999), "Street Gospel Mystical Intellectual Survival Codes" (Budget Press, 2000), "Scrape That Violin More Darkly Then Hover Like Smoke In The Air" (Black Spring Press, 2001), "Existential Labyrinths" (Black Spring Press, 2003), "Window Shopping For A New Crown of Thorns" (Lulu Press, 2007), "November Rust" (Lulu Press, 2007), "My Arrival Is Marked By Illuminating Stains" (Lulu Press 2007), "A Symphony of Olives" (Propaganda Press, 2009) and "Divertimiento" (Propaganda Press, 2009). His second novel "Naderia" was released in January 2011 and his third, "Be Still and Know That I Am" (Beat Corrida) was released in September 2011. He is also currently playing guitar and bass for NYC singer/songwriter Linda La Porte. View My Profile