Living in a small room above an upholstery shop in Vancouver, Canada, in 1975, I began escaping to write in cafés. At first it was just a place to make a fresh start, to find some inspiration. Gradually, it became much more than that: A place where book ideas would unfold magically and chapters could be plotted and paced, an environment where I could stop time and make something happen.

 

Various writers, artists and scientist friends were also inhabiting cafés at the time; we each had our favorite neighborhood spots, special tables and times for working. Sometimes we would meet up and talk in the cafés, too, but it was secondary to the creative process and there was always the tacit understanding not to disturb anyone especially in their “home” café. It was only later that I read A Moveable Feast, Hemingway’s memoir of Paris, and realized there was a long tradition of café writing that extends to the likes of J.K. Rowling, recently returned to the cafés of Edinburgh to finish the last Harry Potter.

 

Last summer, the main Starbucks on Princes Street overlooking Edinburgh Castle, where I have written substantial parts of four books, asked if they could make a display using the covers from my books. As part of the re-fit of the store, they commissioned an artist who took the book jackets, added some of my manuscript pages and coffee-stained first drafts, plus a page from my journal, and created a panel collage for “permanent” display. It will hang in the café throughout 2007-2008 – at least until they do another re-fit.

 

I am pleased, of course, but also rather relieved that the panel is nowhere near my favorite table.

 

Even before I started writing in cafés, I worked in libraries. Large portions of my first book and parts of others were written in libraries and I will always feel grateful for the warm and generous spirit of librarians. They taught me a lot, nourished me and generally made the prospect of gluing myself to a chair for 6 or 7 hours at a time a lot more pleasant.