In sports, everyone talks about the home court advantage, and with good reason. You’ve got your locker room, your fans, your food, your family. You know what to expect and when to expect it. You feel at ease. Relaxed. Chill. It doesn’t guarantee a triumph, but it sure helps.
Writers have home court advantages, too. I mean, some writers. The mental ones. Like, eh, me.
Since we moved from New York to California 4 1/2 years ago, I’ve searched for the perfect writing spot. There are tons of candidates; many places that pop up, do me well for a span, then sorta fade. Or, to show you how difficult this can be, I spend an inordinate amount of time sitting near the window of the nearby Whole Foods. Which, well … eh. Yeah.
Anyhow, I’m back in New York for a day and some nubs, and as I write this I’m inside Sunburst, the Manhattan cafe that I absolutely fucking love. And the words are flowing. I’m nearly 2,500 for the day, which is a much-needed outpouring of language. I’ve had my coffee, my eggs, my turkey burger. I arrived at 10 am. It’s now 5:15 pm. I don’t even know why, exactly, this joint works—but it just does. Of my eight books, I’d say, oh, 2,000 pages have been written right here.
I feel at ease.
I feel sharp.
I feel home.
