johnvano.com: Last Sips of an Old Romance

Today I missed my last huzzah at the neighborhood Starbucks, a location that let its lease expire. For three years my Corolla’s tires crunched over the gravel lot belonging to this respite on the side of the highway. Perched on top of a music studio, its floors were bare linoleum and existed in three planes—entry floor space, order area, and lakeside view. Often there were artworks or framed photographs from local artists displayed on the walls for purchase. I came here to write my first great novel—sparingly and randomly at first, before finally settling into a three or four days per week morning ritual. Along the way the first great novel was shelved, giving way to book two, the dream adjusted downward from “a million dollar advance” to “let’s just get published.”

My favorite spot was along the lake, back to the front wall, plugged in and facing the customers and serving bar. Sometimes another writer or worker (I didn’t know which) would sit nearby and share an electric outlet. Usually what counted for company were an infrequent pair of early morning Bible study dudes or a lonely young cop who read his Bible along the other wall.

Each day like clockwork, a gaggle of seniors would scoot in for their 7:30 breakfast chat. At times it was comforting, listening to the group read headlines from their morning paper, knowing they had nowhere urgent to be. When I got up to pack my bag somewhere between their arrival and 8:00, I would feel a pang of jealousy at their freedom. Chuck, a soft grump who liked to talk up the Starbucks crew, and his smiling sidekick wife the central players, holding court on the topics of the day.

The employees were regular, but fluid, moving to other stores, other states, and other professions. The “sports guy” now works at my Saturday Starbucks, one barista was interested in updates on my diet, but she moved to the west coast. The last connection I made was with a solid, attentive staffer who I can assume has been transferred somewhere within a 10-mile radius. The staffer I will forever associate with the store was lean and pretty, but shy and difficult to connect with—though she once revealed her affection for Canadian pennies.

I’ll never know when I first walked into this store, but a notation I found in a journaling document lists January 16, 2008--a Wednesday--as a likely start to my writing regularity. I was there to work on a novel about a young guy who tries to get his life unstuck by pursuing a girl from his past. I bumped along with the book on Wednesday nights at Starbucks, and other places at random times. By September 16^th of that year, my life had tipped slightly, my eight-year position with a non-profit “eliminated” earlier in the day. Still, I found my way to Starbucks--after I’d calmed my wife’s fears and put the kids to bed.

And it was the very next day at my lakeside Starbucks that I typed the final word of the first draft. To me it was sweet vindication and a sign that the next phase of my life was beginning. Perhaps I wouldn’t need another job, I could double-down and bring the manuscript to sale, walking away from office life before my severance package expired.

For the next two months I made regular appearances at Starbucks and other places, first editing the novel, and then slugging through job postings and emails—just to be sure my family got fed.

I’m grateful the new job came so quickly because the first novel dried up soon after I transitioned my writing from a “whenever I can” pattern to a daily morning ritual. It was here, in the aftermath of the third draft, of preparing query letters for agents, of rethinking the whole thing, that I realized there was much to be improved in my story. I gutted my linear narrative, tried a radical rescue, and then in May 2010 discovered a 20-page manuscript I’d started the summer before. It suddenly seemed prudent to start something new.

Though I stopped today at my lakeside Starbucks, I hadn’t been back since December 15. Off work for Christmas, I came instead to my Saturday Starbucks—a habit I’d begun in July. Saturdays give me one more chance to bring my story to life, with additional time and more comfortable clothes, a new environment to tell myself it’s not a weekday in the same old habitat. I like the new store, with its high, lofty ceilings; my writing nook is around the corner from the door with my back to the shaded window. I notice the words come more easily to me here, in my jeans and ballcap, and without the chatty seniors.

I meant to get back to the lakeside Starbucks the Sunday after Christmas or yesterday—but I slept too long. I knew December 28^th was the store’s last day so today I brought my camera, wanting a photo of the place where my dreams took shape. But it was eerily dark as I pulled up at about 7 am. It turns out the last day open was the first day closed. So I drove on to a new store, farther from home, but much closer to work. There I noticed all the things I didn’t like—the space in a strip mall, the parking far from the door, the seats exposed and cold. But I dug into the work and forgot where I was.

I’m sure I’ll be back to make it a home.