I’m a bit of a homebody. My favorite weather is rainy. I like cheap coffee’s and expensive teas. My preferred pet is a over-sized, super cuddly cat. When left to my own devices I am likely to turn my couch into one big nest where I can curl up and never leave.
Okay, not never-never, but pretty darn close.
You’d think that this quirk of mine would lend itself easily to writing. Newsflash: it doesn’t. From the sanctity of my nest I can read just a couple more chapters of that paperback I picked up. I can play my DS or watch another episode on Netflix. Seriously though, whose gotten anything done since the invention of Netflix?
So, when I get into a writing rut I have to get out and write. I hit up all the normal hotspots for literary hopefuls. The local library, the bookstore, the coffee shop and panera bread. But my all time favorite is a family owned burger joint called hotrodders.
The decor is throwback fifties Americana with sparkling red booths that tend to sag in the middle. Their wifi connection is liable to go out when new customers pop in the door. The checkerboard floor is in constant need of sweeping and on the right day you can catch the family in the middle of a scwabble.
So why do I go there? Because they handmake the buns for their burgers, the cook is a certified chef, and the entire family welcomes me by name with my favorite drink. I never feel like an intrusion no matter how long I linger.
Okay, it’s more than that. The entire atmosphere is ripe for personalities and people. It never feels like you are walking into a restaurant. It feels like to are walking into a families kitchen to sit down and enjoy a meal. The owners know a good portion of the community and offer military and law enforcement a discount on their food. There are just so many kinds of people who come through here…it’s hard not to get inspired by them.
As I sit here two gentleman have come through the door. They smell of paint and sweat and the musk of rain. One is slim, the other is fat. The slim one has the dark weathered look of a man who spends a great deal of time in the sun. His bleached hair hands around a slender and worn face. The sleeves of his pink floyd t-shirt are just short enough to reveal the ink of old tattoos.
The larger man keeps tugging at his pants. His wide legged posture takes up a great deal of limited space and his companion is forced to stick his legs under his own chair. The ash brown curls around the fat mans face are short enough that they turn his head into a perfect ball shape.
They talk about the old ladies house they just got done painting.
There is a good chance I will use these two in a story somewhere along the line. I’ve already added their descriptions to my notebook and will tug at that when I need someone interesting…
I guess what I’m saying is that this place inspires me and for all my writers out there I encourage you to find your place. Just don’t take this one. It’s mine.