Driving Does Not Equal Writing

Tonight I dropped my fiancee off at a going-away party for one of her fellow artists and left to find a nice coffee shop and get some writing done. Unfortunately, I live in Ottawa, which I’m sure is the worst designed urban center in Canada. Worse, it’s a Friday, and the start of Rib Fest, so the downtown was ridiculously packed. My original plan of finding a coffee shop close to where my fiancee would be was shot in the foot.

Instead, I tried to think of somewhere vaguely nearby that I could go, but to no avail. And no, I don’t have data on my phone to look up the location of every coffee shop on the planet, because 9 times out of 10 I don’t need it and I can’t afford the expense. After taking to the highway, I reached a Starbucks about 10 minutes away (which took me 20 minutes because I had to find somewhere to park), and by the time I got my tea and the table where I’m currently writing this, I was a bit rattled.

I don’t like driving. I do it, and I don’t usually complain about it, but if I have to drive for more than 15-20 minutes I start to get either bored or antsy. Long trips to Burlington or somewhere are fine because I can crank my tunes and there aren’t very many people around. Tonight, just trying to find a damn coffee shop that doesn’t close at 9, was no exception. Which taught me this valuable lesson: driving is not conducive to writing. If I have to drive more than 10 minutes to a coffee shop to write, I might as well just stay at home.

But now that I’ve done this therapeutic blog post, I’m going to sip my Awake tea (ah), settle into my comfortable chair, put on some Matchbox 20, and work on my novel.

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