Quiet Rebel Writer

I have never been a coffee drinker. It seems heresy – a writer (or otherwise functioning adult) who doesn’t drink coffee? Aren’t we a society built on the unrealistic energy high of caffeine? How on earth have I survived this far?

In college, I took this discord to heart. I couldn’t be a proper college student, let alone a writer, without at least one coffee binge. College students are supposed to hang out at coffeehouses and utter profundities over lattes, wise words that will define the next generation. Right? But up to my senior year, I had devoted my drinking behavior to the other nectar of the gods – alcohol. And it’s true, musings on the state of humanity and revolutionary plans for its future may have been uttered by myself and my companions in the throes of alcoholic bliss. Unfortunately, they usually were negated in value by being sandwiched between shouted lyrics to “Back that Ass Up.”

In my (first) senior year, staring down the ever-approaching graduation day, I decided that I had missed out too long, and I would make myself like coffee. I poured myself a cup at work one day from the communal pot, and by adding my body weight in cream and sugar, it did have a passable taste. But since I had already committed myself to a couple appointments a week of binge drinking, I decided that gagging down coffee would divert too much energy from perfecting that alcoholic genius persona.

I say all this to explain how for a long time, coffeehouses were a mysterious environment I hesitated to enter. I had no reason or precedent for visiting coffeehouses. When I moved to Chicago, and found the coffeehouse phenomena on a grander, frightening scale, I decided to give it a go. I discovered the wonderful world of wi-fi. I found a world of people without the strictures of the 9 to 5 environment. When I became a freelancer, I discovered a buzzing hive of other independents.

And I learned that I hate coffeehouses.

Let me describe why coffeehouses are a detriment to my freelance life. In coffeehouses across this great urban space, in shops resembling lofted warehouses, studio apartments, or student lounges, there sit men and women in silent competition. In nooks and crannies, women and men sit amidst laptops, strewn out pieces of paper, or journals, scribbling furiously, with the occasional furtive glance at their surroundings. It’s an office environment transported, one where you’re constantly watching your own ass and making sure others aren’t outpacing you.

Of course there are still the coffee drinkers that seem to be leisurely reading the newspaper or magazine. There are the coffee drinkers who use the house as a brief respite from their home office, or those sitting with a group of friends enjoying an assuredly stimulating conversation. But one gets the feeling that even these pseudo-relaxers are really just lying in wait.

By abstaining from the whole scene, I’ve evidently missed the hidden boiler room. The coffeehouse seems to offer sustenance and rejuvenation, a relaxing spot to conduct or catch up on work. But I can’t escape the underlying tension, the seething undercurrent of competition.

What is the root of this competition? I can’t help but think every patron, no matter their stated reason for being there, is plotting the Next Big Thing, their contribution to the higher echelons of aesthetic culture, to the enriching world of Web 2.0, or to the bowels of reality culture. They work and slave away at their projects, and they seem to know, just know, that the person on the next stool at the coffeehouse is their direct competition, the one that will bring their cherished, unique concept to the world faster. This competition, while it may seem helpful, really just seems to inspire the “last-one-there-is-a-rotten-egg” kind of mentality. Longing to be Hemingway or Gehry or Obama or Ruscha falls to wayside in the rush to succeed before everyone else, before a certain age, and before a wide audience.

Of course, I could be reading into this, seeing something that’s not there. But I find there’s enough pressure on myself when I sit down to write at my computer. I can’t deal with the coffeehouse with hipsters throwing around unnecessary word porn like “cogitation” and “jejune,” the artery-clogging but oh-so-tempting bakery treats to tempt me, and the subtle tenseness around me, like runners before the gun goes off. My blank computer screen is pressure enough, along with the nagging insecurities that peep up regularly in the back of my head. No external pressures needed, thank you.

So that’s why I will continue to abstain. From coffee. All other deadly sins, including alcoholic gluttony and rampant lust are fair game.

What do you think? Do you find coffeehouses a good environment to work? Are you secretly plotting the Next Big Thing??