It happens. First once. Then, again and again until I can’t ignore it.
Tiny voices. Mommy! My door creaks open. We find you! We play computer! They read aloud the names of half-formed characters. Who that?
I don’t know, I say, it’s only a draft, but they persist. When I return from fetching the water they demand, I have forgotten what I’m writing.
I have heard others—namely Bob, of the How To Publish Panel—refer to a place. My coffee shop office, he said with his gentle chuckle, where I am from nine until eleven five days a week. Like clock work.
My home is warm, yes, with steady wifi. It is what I know. But I must assemble provisions for a quest. I must find this coffee shop office.