Next week (because my son resumes PreK after a 2 week spring break) is National PB Sit in a Different Starbucks Daily and Write a (insert expletive) Poem Week. Well, at least monday through thursday. Actually not tuesday because that’s when I try to stay seated on a giant horse for 30 minutes while it cavorts around a ring and after that my thighs burn and wobble and I attempt to get prone as quickly as possible until it’s time to pick up my son. And probably not thursday, either, for the same reason. And definitely not friday because my son engages in Adventure Friday with Mama (nature walks, the study of caged animals and dino bones, etc). But Monday? Wednesday? Absolutely. I happen to be surrounded by a gazzilion Starbucks from Chatsworth to Tarzana. “Take advantage,” my husband suggested. “Get away from your–er, office–and see what happens writing-wise.” Because lately, as I work in my
bedroom office, I’m distracted by everything from house finch chatter to listening for the UPS truck to the giant Baby Huey kitten asleep at my feet to the lovely colorful swirly images filling the Cavalia calendar on my wall to the arching, cat-chewed fake orchid on the loooooong dresser, to social media to anything but the words circling endlessly in my head, waiting (for how long?) for me to bring them on home.
Because I know I’ll go because I love their coffees and they’re not far away, like the botanical gardens, zoo, Huntington Library, the rose garden at Exposition Park, any sort of inspiring writing spot I can think of. Ha ha! I’m getting OUT. Starbucks, you hopefully clean and tidy and patio-bearing venue! Here I come.
Let NaMeSiDifStarDaiWri%#*Po Week commence! Next week, that is. Monday. And wednesday. And maybe friday if the little guy ends up having a playdate. But definitely monday. Just me, my iphone (muted) and my awkardly large black journal. And a pen. Clicker-type. With a big fat stem.
Yours in salted caramel frappucinos and fresh poetry,