13 Rules for Writing
Write in a bathrobe.
Or whatever you put on when no one’s around.
I wanted to write in cafes. JK Rowling wrote Harry Potter in a cafe. There must be something magical about such a place. Maybe it’s the coffee fumes. Maybe it’s the cushy chairs. Maybe it’s the bear claws. I don’t know or care. The magic of cafe is the kind of magic that I don’t need to understand to harness. And I wanted to harness it.
Cafes are magical places for writing. So are hilltops in the sunrise. And empty beaches. And park benches on posh, manicured lawns.
Cafes are magical places for writing.
Writers don’t sell places. They sell books and stories in books and characters in books and the magic in the books and the places in the books.
I dreamt of going to Hogwarts, not a cafe in Edinburgh.
Writing can be done in a jail cell. It can be done in a kitchen over the heads of inquisitive children and burnt dinners. It can be done in buses to avoid the skeevy bum in the next seat. It can be done in a cubicle to avoid spreadsheets and manilla folders.
Books and stories and characters can come to life sipping lattes in artsy black turtlenecks.
Or evening gowns.
Or granny panties.
Or anything else you wouldn’t want to wear to a cafe.