I Write with Coffee, and That’s Awesome.
Once upon a time, my writing workflow was analog.
I wrote my first book at four. It was a space opera illustrated by yours truly in livid Crayola colors; I narrated the text to my mother, who faithfully jotted down my spaceship journey into outer space. The resulting book, bound in green construction paper with a toothy feel to it, remains a proud accomplishment.
Then as a teenager, like so many budding storytellers, I submitted stories to Highlights for Children and Cricket. I wrote horrible religious poetry which actually, to my shame, got published. I drew maps of the world I called Griffel, developed sprawling family trees and histories, and attempted to create a language for each country.
Learning to type accelerated my word-vomit as every afternoon after piano and flute practice (life of a homeschooler) I sat at the dim-screened word processor and produced gems like The Haybale Gift and Misogi, in which exclamation points featured heavily (!) and my wooden ear for dialogue frolicked, unashamed. The keys clattered under my fingertips in a satisfying way. I published a fair number of pieces in no-name magazines and even cashed a few $25 checks.
My first laptop — four pounds, a Dell I saved for — propelled me into the thick of novel after novel, some bad, all shallow and undernourished. Two hours a day I wrote anything that came to mind.
Somewhere in here, the coffee bug bit me. I came home buzzing with caffeine from my first shift at a Kansas City cafe and started what became a novella on coffee, fiction, and consent. Ever after, coffee rushed and gurgled through my brain and lifestyle as I began to really come to grips with life as seen through prose. The topic of rape was on my mind, and coercion. Also, latte art. Maybe someday I’ll publish some work from that era.
Years later I got into journalism, copywriting, social media management, and online content, and I learned to churn the work out regardless of feeling, which is much better than it sounds. The Dell gave way to a Toshiba, which died and gave birth to my current Macbook Pro.
I’ve written in Peru, Colombia, and Africa, and in coffeehouses and living room chairs across the United States. I transcribed hundreds of interviews, edited movie scripts. Researched beaches I’ve never visited for a piece USA Today bought but never published, raised my eyebrows with disbelief as I’m fed lines of bullshit in a prison, and spoken on the intersection of social media and coffee. Six months ago while living in Ethiopia, I started writing the novel I’m 2/3 finished with now.
My routine is on its way to unbreakable: up around 5:30, and to the gym. Home at 6:30, stretch that kink in my back while I wait for the water to heat up and I brew whatever Crema.co offering is on my counter that week. Then, Queens of the Stone Age on my headphones, the moody Portland morning dawning around me, I write at least 1000 words on my novel before my daughter’s feet hit the ground and hugs/cuddles break my concentration.
Throughout the day I plant my ass in a chair at cafes all around Portland with a cappuccino or mug of drip next to me, and I write articles/emails/UX/copy/etc. Headphones in, coffee fueling my workflow.
I think at this stage if I tried to produce anything worth reading sans coffee, it would take me 3x as long and still be crap.
I write with coffee, and I’m proud of it. What about you?
