Culture Junkie: On playwriting, coffee shops and bartenders as allies

Last week, I was invited to give a talk as part of the monthly Writers’ Forum series sponsored by The Write Spot and Copperfield’s Books in Petaluma. Specifically, I was asked to talk about the craft of writing plays, and to share any tips and suggestions I may have picked up along the way.

I have learned a few things over the years, which I happily shared last Thursday night with the assembled crowd. But later that night, as I was chatting with some friends, it dawned on me that I’d completely failed to mention one tip that I meant to share.

I’d even written it in my notes, and then somehow skipped over it during the actual talk.

It’s one of the most important things I’ve ever learned as a writer.

It is this: Bartenders make the best allies.

It doesn’t have to be bartenders, of course. It could also be barista, a restaurant wait staffer or an ice rink snack-bar counter worker.

The important part is - and this is something I learned as an 18-year-old wannabe writer in southern California – a restaurant counter, or a bar, or any spot where stools belly up to a slab of wood behind which servers are working, is a great place to get some writing done.

And the best way to be made to feel welcome when you pull out a notebook or a laptop or a script festooned with multicolored post-it notes is to make the people who work there your ally.

There are many good ways to do this.

The most effective, of course, (and the quickest), is to earn a reputation as a decent tipper.

As a teenager frequenting coffeeshops in Downey, where I grew up, I soon learned to calculate my tips, not on a percentage of my overall bill, but on how many 30-45 minute periods I was occupying that stool. It was one generously conversational woman who worked at a coffeeshop called Jon’s, a short walk from my house, who pointed this out. She explained that for someone like her, someone who counted on tips to pay the rent, a frequent and regular turnaround of customers was vital. If my butt on the seat extended past 30 or 45 minutes, then I was taking up space another tipping customer could be occupying.

“So if you’re planning on tipping me two dollars for that first 45 minutes, it’s only fair that you add another dollar or two with every extra 45 minutes to sit there writing in your notebook,” she smiled. “Fair is fair, right honey?”

This was one of those coffee shops where the wait staff called people Honey.

“And here’s another tip, Honey,” she added. “You can always just come in when it’s slow. When the place is empty, you stay as long as you want. Keeps me from getting bored. And if you turn out to be interesting to talk to, well that’s just gravy.”

And so began my lifelong appreciation of coffeeshop workers and, eventually, bartenders.

I know, I know. I could always work at home. And I do.

But home is so full of distractions. When you are working on a writing project at the bar of a restaurant, it is not acceptable to pop up, wander around, flop on the couch, surf the television or go into the kitchen to root through the refrigerator. When you are working at a bar, you tend to stay in place and keep working.

One of my current favorite writing spots in Petaluma is the far corner of the bar at Seared restaurant downtown. I call it “the magic corner,” right up against the old brick wall. I’m not the only one who likes that corner – it’s often occupied when I arrive - but when I do manage to score a seat there, I like to think it means my writing is going to go especially well.

One of the bartenders at Seared, Chris, always makes sure to ask how various projects are going, of late showing interest in my most recent play “Galatea.” Chunks of it were written in the magic corner, and I’m happy to say the play is now in rehearsals, getting ready to open a three-week run at Spreckels Performing Arts Center in Rohnert Park on March 20.

Among the many great things about bartenders is that, once they know you are working on something like a play, they really can become your ally. They can skillfully dissuade other patrons from distracting you with questions about what you are doing. They can serve as ready sounding boards when you need some instant feedback on something you’ve just written.

There used to be a classy upstairs bar in Santa Rosa where, for some reason, very few people congregated between its 4 p.m. opening and around 8 p.m., when it began to fill up. Once or twice a week, that was my time. The place was quiet, the staff was genuinely supportive of having a resident playwright at the end of the bar, and I got quite a bit of work writing done there. Upon completion of one particular project, understanding that part of the process of developing a play is hearing it read out-loud for the first time, the management of the place offered to host a private first reading. About 30 invited folks showed up one late afternoon to hear a team of actors read the thing, sitting on stools on the venue’s tiny stage. The attendees all bought drinks, of course, so it was mutually beneficial, and a great way to kick off a project.

Several years ago, at the time I was working on a novella-length fiction piece called “Mary Shelley’s Body” – a scary story about the ghost of the author of “Frankenstein” - my favorite writing spot was Grafitti, in the Petaluma Theater District, where Ayawaska is now. In its Graffiti days, the staff there was all-in on my various writing projects, eagerly discussing whatever scene I might be working on, cheering me on as I grow closer and closer to the final page. As it so happened, since that story was set in a graveyard, I occasionally had need of names for my tombstones. As a kind of “Easter egg,” I began embedding the names of the staff into the story as names on various graves and tombs.

One particular bartender (and articulately knowledgeable movie fan) named Josiah Nickerson Knowles IV (yes, that’s his real name) gladly lend me the family moniker for the book. It ended up in a passage where Mary Shelley’s wandering spirit says, “And who is this over here, beneath this crumbling tomb with the ancient stone angel, its head long removed? Josiah Nickerson Knowles IV. ‘A gentleman in the face of all adversity.’ Well, Mr. Knowles. I hope that wherever you are, your gentlemanly head is better attached than the one that once rested on your little angelic guardian here.”

When I happened to mention this little fact to another patron one afternoon, the guy delightedly called across the room, “Hey, Josiah! I hear your name is on a tombstone!”

“It’s actually on a few tombstones,” he called back. “I am Josiah Nickerson Knowles the Fourth, right?”

Eventually, “Mary Shelley’s Body” was published as part of the anthology “Eternal Frankenstein,” by Petaluma’s Word Horde Books. Josiah and many of the other Graffiti staff made sure to get copies, whimsically appreciative of the odd circumstance that placed their names in the story in such delightfully gothic fashion.

A few months ago, while completing the aforementioned “Galatea” - about robots on a space station - I found myself working in a number of local spots as I approached my dealine. A scene in which my main robot character learns a shocking truth from her therapist (yes, in my play, robots have therapists) was written at River Front Café. The fictional “mission statement” of a secret organization of robot designers was crafted while sitting at the large community table at Acre Coffee on Petaluma Boulevard. And the climactic final scene, in which all storylines, robotic and otherwise, come together, was finished while sitting right there in Seared’s magic corner.

“Is that it? Is it done?” Chris asked as I took a breath, typed in the words “End of Play,” and somewhat ceremoniously closed my laptop. “It’s done,” I nodded, accepting Chris’s celebratory high five gesture, and returning my computer to its bag.

It’s a little corny, but kind of nice – and this is another thing I forgot to mention during my talk last week – to live in a town where such personal writerly milestones take place regularly. I can go about my business, and suddenly recognize that, over there, I started such-and-such a project. At that table over by that window, I got a bit emotional writing a particular death scene and the waiter brought Kleenex, gently saying, “Was it someone real or someone fictional?” (True story!). In that corner right there … I finished my robot play and got high fives from the bartender.

Bartenders really do make the best allies. And when you finish a play, they can even serve you a drink to help you celebrate.

(Culture Junkie runs every other week in the Argus-Courier. You can reach David at david.templeton@arguscourier.com)