BURLY COFFEE
A moody man-cave with south-facing windows and dark wood tables. It’s where I was taught how to order my drink properly. “One iced matcha tea, with a splash of milk . . . not a latte.” It’s where I spent most Saturday mornings during the early COVID years. Back when I lived in Brooklyn, back when writing was mostly journaling, and back when reading was mostly a cover for eavesdropping on innocent passersby. These were the first strangers I ever told I was a writer. This café was the first place where I promised to sell my book. It’s where I almost felt like a writer. If you look this place up, the first search result from Google Reviews will tell you that this location is now “Permanently Closed.”
BAKERS ON BROAD
An Italian bakery masquerading as a café, whose previous tenants include another café and a pizza shop. It’s where I wrote most of my manuscript alongside Annabel. “What if we just give up on our manuscripts and … start a podcast? No, a book club! Never mind.” It’s where many of the writers in that small New Jersey town wrote or gathered to talk about writing. It’s where I sought refuge whenever I doubted my choice to leave the big city. These were the second set of strangers I told I was a writer. This “café” was the second place where I promised to sell my book. It’s where I begin to believe I really am a writer. If you dig a little, you’ll learn Joe the Baker owns half the area’s Italian bakeries, pretending to be cafés, and that he’ll be there far longer than the rest.
STARBUCKS
A 20-minute drive from Bakers, but worth it for the feng shui alone–the communal table, patio, and clear flow in, out, and through the store. It’s where I half-joked about working when I quit my job and moved to New Jersey. “Nobody knows me here … and they offer healthcare to part-time employees.” It’s where I wrote whenever I ran out of inspiration elsewhere and blamed “the vibe,” as I have been known to do. It’s where I began to conceive of a life where writing isn’t just an after-work, weekend, or evening activity. It’s where I finally re-read the memoir manuscript I’d written six months prior, and where I decided I needed to revise and keep going. These new strangers know me just as “the writer.” And ever since taking the job, other writers tell me that I’m the “real writer” because of it, and I am letting that idea settle in. I’m not very good at making coffee–I’m mainly at the cash register and the ovens–but I’ll keep working on this and my writing craft for as long as it takes.