Writing in Bars

I’d love to be the kind of writer who can say “I’ve done some of my best work in bars.” Unfortunately I’m not that cool.

I can say I’ve done at least some work in bars, and maybe some of it was decent, but no more than that.

I can say I’ve done some work with a beer, cold and dark, on the table next to my laptop while AC/DC plays on the jukebox and drunks laugh at who knows what all around me. I can say I’ve done some work in dim rooms full of cigarette smoke and the heady aromas of pizza and hot wings. I can say I’ve done some work while people pour amber liquid from pitchers and accidentally miss their buddy’s glass.

But I can’t say I’ve done my best.

Someone walks behind me, following an awkward path with two full pint glasses in hand across the room back to her table. She sits down across from someone else—a boyfriend or husband maybe—and says something to him. They both laugh.

She wanted to see what I was doing staring so intently at a laptop in a crowded bar late at night. What did she tell her friend? Were they laughing at me or with me?

I probably look pretty strange.

What would I tell them I’m doing, if they asked?

“I’m writing a novel,” perhaps.

Or maybe, “Just writing a story.”

Would they laugh? Writers are cool, right?

Especially the ones who do all their best work in bars.