Things I Miss
By: Karen Hough
Tags: Coffee Shop, Writing, Solitude, Pandemic, Writers Life

Things I Miss

Not least, I’m mourning my second office

Inspiration strikes. (Image credit: Angela Bailey on Unsplash)

Between pandemic fears and homeschooling horrors, only a very few things have remained constant. While I’m fine — we’re all fine — there is so much that I miss, little things that I didn’t know meant so much to me in the before.

People. And solitude.

I had to give up planned visits to my family in Canada, and a selfish vacation in France. I had to give up my running group, and the bootcamps I teach, first due to physical distancing regulations, and then due to my-children-are-always-at-home. The irony is not lost on me: I miss people, colleagues and friends, but because I contain multitudes, I mostly miss being alone.

The second office(s)

I miss choice. I miss being alone at my living room desk, a gorgeous old secretary that came with our flat, but I also miss the luxury of being able to work at my “second office,” Starbucks…well, two Starbuckses and my local pub, really; all three are dog-friendly.

I didn’t work there often, no more than once every three weeks, but now I can’t even imagine the idea of having another option besides sharing the dining room table with the three kids (distracting and bickering-y), or being more than arm’s-length away at my own desk, which, with no direct line of sight to children (not) doing schoolwork, is not much of an improvement.

My reusable cup

Another relic of the time before COVID is my reusable cup. I wrote my name on it with a Sharpie, so they can’t possibly get it wrong. Because I’ve had to chug down giant Starbucks mugs of still-steaming hot lattes too many times when Ziggy-the-office-dog decided he’d had enough, I learned to tuck a clean one into my satchel, as well as a knit coffee sleeve insulator. Now, the environment is back to dealing with disposable cups (though far less often, from me at least), but I still try to have a sleeve with me.

My satchel

I rarely carry my Writerly Satchel(tm) anymore, probably because I rarely leave the house. When I do, I don’t take my laptop with me. It’s my number one piece of writer paraphernalia: a gorgeous old leather Roots bag that I found on eBay. I bought it last summer; I had just returned from a holiday in Florence, in which I ran out of time to find a new purse. Now, I don’t buy expensive purses, but decided that, if I were to have a souvenir from Italy, it might as well be a leather purse that I promised to use for years. But I ran out of time, then refused to buy one in the airport, on principle. When I got home, my leather-purse pocket money was still burning a hole in my…well, my pocket, and I decided I’d rather have one from Roots. While new ones are far too pricey for my thrifty self, I paid £50 pounds for a used, someone-else-broke-it-in-perfectly satchel, and it will last forever. Most importantly, when I carry it, it is a shield against imposter syndrome. I look like a writer.

It easily holds Ziggy’s favourite (small) blanket to lie down on, a chewy stick and some treats to keep him occupied so I can work. It’s like when I used to bring cheerios to keep my kids busy when they were toddlers, but far weirder and more involved…oh yes, and my notebook, pen and laptop, too.

My routines

Way back, in the Time Before March, a trip to a “second office” started with a nice long walk with Ziggy. First stop: the dog park, involving as much frolicking and racing around after balls and other dogs as possible, so that he’d be tired enough to relax and let me work. I didn’t play; I was weighed down by my Writerly Satchel(tm), after all.

After, muddy and wet, I’d go to the Starbucks close to the park, or the pub on the way back, or the other Starbucks, on the way home from the other park, set up my mobile hotspot on my phone, and sip my chai latte or slurp my soup while Ziggy worked away at his chewy.

Did I get more done in Starbucks than at my desk? No, but I got things done. I blocked out distractions (that weren’t Ziggy, at least), and got to feel like a writer in public. Satchel: check! Notebook: check! Laptop: check! Look at me, I’m writing!

The way it is now

Here at home, there is less of that. Here, we’re all sitting around the dining room table, the kids on their school iPads, me on my laptop, all trying to work, trying to stay focused, trying to drink my mug of tea before it gets cold. Ziggy curls up on his old bed under my chair, relaxed and sleepy.

I’m still a writer here; in fact, I’m a better writer and far more productive despite my surroundings. I mean, I wrote and edited my book, but it’s just not the same as being out. Would I really trade this for how it was? Do I want things to go back to the way they were? Yes, ish. I know they won’t, not for months, maybe not ever. But I want options. I want to live selfishly and be alone, except when I want to be with people.

I want the other writers at Starbucks to size me up when I set up my laptop, to see my satchel laid casually beside me, and to see me as one of their own.