Writers’ Fuel

 

 

It is a truth uni­ver­sal­ly acknowl­edged that a word­smith writ­ing a sto­ry is in want of some cof­fee.”

 

I’m pret­ty sure that’s what Jane Austen said.  Fol­lowed by, “Gimme some java.”

I write, sure.  I plot and plan.  I noo­dle with friends.  And yes, I’m invari­ably in want of some cof­fee.  But more, I want a love­ly, qui­et, clean place where I can sip and type, or lounge and talk in peace for a few hours.

Shout out to STORYVILLE COFFEE!!

If you’re in the Seat­tle metro area, give Sto­ryville a try.  Four loca­tions.  Two types of extreme­ly fresh­ly roast­ed cof­fee: Pro­logue for the full caff, and Epi­logue for the decaf.  Break­fast bits.  Lun­cheon stuff.  Beau­ti­ful ambiance.  Com­fort­able seat­ing.  Über kind peo­ple behind the bar.

Also?  Hand-craft­ed espres­so.  This means they don’t push a but­ton and let the machine do all the work.  They actu­al­ly know how to pull espres­so.  It’s a dis­ap­pear­ing art here in Seat­tle, lemme tell ya.

What’s more, they have a won­der­ful objec­tive:

… STORYVILLE is a FOR GIVING com­pa­ny, cre­at­ed for giv­ing. At STORYVILLE, our desire is to sup­port the fight against human traf­fick­ing world­wide until no child, woman, or man is trapped in slav­ery.”

This is a cof­fee com­pa­ny I can get behind.

If they were also open until 9pm, it would be a match made in heav­en.  How­ev­er, they are open 7a-6p M-Th, and 7:59a-6p week­ends. [edit: sum­mer hours begin THIS week­end, so they’ll be open at 6:59a Sat­ur­day and Sun­day.  Wheee!]

Pssst … you don’t have to be a writer to enjoy Sto­ryville Cof­fee.  All that is required is a desire for a bit of some­thing love­ly in your day.

Give them a try.

PS:  They did not pay me for this endorse­ment.  I just loved them.

 

Have you been to Sto­ryville?  What did you think?  What is your favorite place to write, muse, con­verse, chill?

Village People

 

 

Over The Town. Marc Chagall, 1918

Over the Town. Marc Cha­gall, 1918

 

It takes a vil­lage to raise a child.  We’ve all heard the proverb.  I think it takes a vil­lage to do almost any­thing, whether that vil­lage is defined by geog­ra­phy, pas­sion, blood­line, pro­fes­sion or adop­tion.  Our cre­ations always require the touch of oth­ers some­where along the line, whether it’s rais­ing a small human or putting a new sto­ry into the world.  Any­one who says dif­fer­ent­ly is sell­ing some­thing.

So why is it that one of our deep­est myths is that of Sin­gle-Per­son-Makes-Good?  What is it about that sto­ry which turns iso­la­tion into an anoint­ment, and the soli­tary fig­ure into some kind of demigod?

The indi­vid­ual as savior/fixer/developer/creator is a sto­ry old as time, but it’s one that is inher­ent­ly untrue.  Its roots can be found in enti­tle­ment and iso­la­tion­ism, and it’s a par­a­digm the U.S. has embraced whole­heart­ed­ly.  It’s the same “go it alone” machis­mo which birthed the myth of the Starv­ing Artist, the Lone Wolf, and the Man With No Name.

Some down­sides to the sto­ic iso­la­tion­ist sto­ry are that the Lone Wolf remains a bro­ken man–I’m look­ing at you, “Out­law Josey Wales”–unless he accepts the com­mu­ni­ty gath­er­ing around him, the artist almost always dies of tuber­cu­lo­sis (or mad­ness), and the Man With No Name always leaves a trail of dead bod­ies in his wake.

As an artist, neigh­bor, and coun­try­man, I’m all for embrac­ing a more flex­i­ble mod­el, one that makes it accept­able to ask for help, to lean on and learn from those across the aisle, to acknowl­edge the con­tri­bu­tions oth­ers make to what we build, and to help them in return, as equals.  I want my coun­try to learn the gift of col­lab­o­ra­tion, not sim­ply dic­ta­tion.  My hope is that we–especially the suc­ceed­ing generations–ditch the tox­ic, fear­ful con­cept of “oth­er” and embrace being an open and equal mem­ber of our glob­al vil­lage.

Here at Ink in the Veins, we’re try­ing to be the change we want to see.  I’m unwill­ing to accept the strug­gling, lone­ly, tuber­cu­lar writer in the freez­ing gar­ret as my par­a­digm.  Our tribe–other pen mon­keys, gamers, artists, dream­ers, visionaries–stretches up the West Coast and extends around the world.  We embrace a glob­al fam­i­ly.  Sure, the act of putting words on paper is often soli­tary, but fre­quent­ly (and in Simone’s and my case, repeat­ed­ly) cre­ation is col­lab­o­ra­tion.  No artist exists in a vac­u­um.  I don’t think any cre­ative per­son does.

Our stories–the ones we tell and the ones we take in–are how we con­nect to our world.  They’re our bridges, our explo­ration, our way of open­ing the door and let­ting in some­thing new.  They’re our way of embrac­ing life’s dif­fer­ences.  They’re also our invi­ta­tions to you.

Ink in the Veins is our vil­lage.  We hope you’ll join us, sit by our camp­fire and share in the sto­ry­telling.  Our vil­lage is your vil­lage, our yurt your yurt.  Please share your thoughts.

Wel­come.

 

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