Tea & Whiskers: The Echoes of What Once Was

For about twenty odd years, give or take, I've been frequenting a cafe to write at. It became my escape, my safe haven, and I could sit for hours there - everything I have written, has been written at that cafe.

I loved the atmosphere, the soft hum of noise, that would sometimes build into a loud orchestra of voices. Often people would ask if it bothered me, the noise: "How can you write with so much noise?" or "How can you consternate in such an environment?"

I would shrug, "I don't know."

And it always did confuse me.

But I felt comfortable there, and I enjoyed being amongst people and around people. Not talking to them, just - absorbing their presence. Existing in a space that had people. And I miss this - so much.

And, of course, I loved writing. I mean, writing - hilariously, considering how bad I am at grammar and spelling - and how I cannot seem to get accepted - is the ONE THING, I want to do with my life. (Throws away another rejection slip, metaphorically, considering they're all electronic these days.)

Gradually though, I came to worry that my dependence on the cafe was a problem. It was a routine I could not shake. I began to feel crippled by it, like it held me in place, locking me down. I had to perform this task, otherwise I would be filled with anxiety. I couldn't explain this to people, and I felt foolish for mentioning it.

I would tell myself - well - you don't have much enjoyment in your life, Kylie. At least you can enjoy a few hours at the Cafe. I would justify it to myself. It was causing me no harm. But it felt like it was.

And I could not figure out why.

Then, one day, the cafe suddenly closed.

Just.

It just closed.

Never to open it doors again.

I was -

Oh -

Okay -

That - er - that just happened -

I actually felt relief.

It was as though I'd been released from this enormous burden that had been weighing me down for about six months. I didn't have to think about it anymore.

For awhile, it felt great. But now, it's been a few months, and I haven't written ANYTHING.

Oh, I've written a few things. Finished a few chapters. But guys, compared to what I used to write - this is pathetic.

And I just don't know what to do. I've thought about other cafes, but as soon as I do, I get this icky reaction like - no - I don't really want to go down that path again, I don't want to get stuck in that hole again. It's like I'm scared - scared of who that woman was, and I don't want to be her.

She represents something in my mind.

And I don't want to go back to being her.

And I'm frustrated by that.

Because, even unshackled by the cafe, I can't achieve the dream that desire. I do not know how to reach my goals. I actually don't know what to do.

Also, my area is actually lacking nice cafes. There are cafes, sure, but none of them are...comfortable. They're all pokey, and tiny, and squishy. See, I liked my cafe, because it felt spacious and I could tuck myself away in the corner, but still be there with people.

I've been trying the library.

And - it's the best I can do at the moment, I guess.

The vibe is just - wrong.

Honestly, I'd probably write better in the middle of Marion Shopping Centre's Food Court, but the chairs there are horrendous. It's like they're designed just to torture an author.

I just don't know what to do.

And I just want to write again.

And I'm frustrated, and sad, and annoyed. I'm annoyed that I don't know how to published my books. I don't know how to tell the world my stories. I don't even know where to write. I feel really lost at the moment with my creativity and usually, that's been a pillar I hold onto and even now I don't have that.

I know I'll figure something out.

Find somewhere new. A new beginning. All good stories start somewhere.