The Red Mug
Wednesday evening. I’m teaching Paralegalism and Ethics at the University of Wisconsin-Superior later tonight. I could drive home after my “real” work day is over at the courthouse. But it’s a half-hour jaunt each way. And then there’s the fuel factor. I also teach Environmental Law at the college on Tuesday nights, so if I want to set a good example for my students, the less wasteful driving I do, the less gasoline my blue Pacifica consumes, the better.
Besides, writers are all about ritual, right? I mean, you’ve read my essays describing my 5:00am obsession. About how I get up every morning, put on the coffee, fire up the iMac, and try to spin yarns. Oh. Don’t forget rubbing the belly of the little synthetic jade Buddha my sister bought me for good luck before beginning to tap away at my keyboard. There’s nothing that says an old writer can’t adopt a new ritual, which is why Wednesday evenings between 5:00pm and 6:30pm, you’ll now find me slurping soup and drinking hot chocolate at the Red Mug Coffee House in Superior.
To be honest, I hadn’t been a frequent visitor to the Mug until recently. My coffee house of choice is located on my side of St. Louis Bay. I’ve been a loyal patron of the Amazing Grace Bakery in Canal Park ever since I first heard folk great Lucy Kaplansky sing there over twenty years ago. Along the way, I became casual friends with the owner, Chip,and a host of the characters that frequent the funky little Greenwich Village-inspired venue. Sadly, Chip’s gone, a victim of the Big “C”. But the place he founded and nurtured still serves great soup and sandwiches alongside some of the finest live music in the Twin Ports.
But back to Wednesday evenings at the Red Mug.
Deciding where to park my keester and write between jobs on Wednesday evenings wasn’t all that difficult. I mean, it’s Superior, right? That is to say, the choices for a clean, quiet, humble, and quaint place to write are pretty limited in a town better known for its cheap ass tap beer than its literature. But I’d been in the Mug a couple of times, so I knew the layout. It’s also right on the way to the campus from the courthouse, making it the perfect location for an OCD afflicted author who craves consistency and order. About a month ago, I started hauling my new Mac Air along with my books, notes, and supplies for my class to my day job every Wednesday. Before class, I find an empty table at the Mug, fire up my notebook, and order dinner. The soup’s very good. The Paninis are filling. And the Mug’s hot chocolate, after too many cups of coffee to start my 5:00am writing obsession, seems a calming elixir.
Inside the Mug
This is only the third or fourth week I’ve been hiding out at the Superior coffee house, which means I haven’t made any new friends or got to know the staff. But that will come. Superior, despite its lack of big hills and scenery, is a friendly place, filled with hard working, gregarious folks. Over time, I’m sure I’ll feel as comfortable at the Mug, tapping away at my prose, as say, William Kent Krueger is at the St. Croix Broiler. I don’t know if Minnesota’s mystery icon still hovers around that venerable St. Paul eatery. But that was once his haunt, the place where he sat for hours, spinning tall tales into his word processor, sipping hot coffee, and trying to remain nondescript. I, of course, don’t have similar worries here at the Mug. No one in the coffee house knows who the hell I am.
The Work Goes On
After three solid years to researching, writing, editing, feedback, and more editing, my novel-in-progress about the Finns and Estonians during World War II, Sukulaiset: The Kindred, is nearly finished. Oh, there will be a final edit sometime later this summer when I send the manuscript to Scribendi, the Internet editing service I’ve used for my last five books, receive the comments and changes suggested by Scribendi’s editor back in the form of Track Changes to my Word document, and make adjustments as need be. But if I’ve done my homework and put together a story that flows, the final edit’s not an arduous task. It’s all of the sweat, blood, tears, frustrations, and swearing that come before the final edit that causes a writer’s gray hair. Or, at my age, more gray hair.
I used to worry about which version of a manuscript floating around on my computer was the most current. Then there was the disaster of waking up and discovering that my Windows computer had experienced a hard drive crash. That’s serious business, as I learned working on Mr. Environment: The Willard Munger Story when a year of work vanished in the ether. I know, I know, I should have been backing up my work on an external hard drive or on the Internet. Or both. Attempts to recover that year of work were unsuccessful but I learned a valuable lesson. I bought an external drive and also began saving my work on the Cloud. Redundancy is apparently a good thing when it comes to data. My eldest son Matt then cured all my ills by a) convincing me to switch to a Mac, a machine much less prone to disintegration; and b)Using Dropbox to secure my work on the Web.
The hour runs late. I save the changes to my manuscript not only on the flash drive of my Air, but also on Dropbox. At home, when I’m using my iMac, security is even more rigid. My documents are saved to the hard drive, to an external hard drive, to Dropbox, and also Carbonite. OCD folks learn lessons well. I shuttle my dirty bowl, plate, and cup to the bin, pack up my computer, and wander outside on this beautiful spring evening, ready to talk to kids about ethics, my manuscript secure in numerous disclosed locations and ready for a final edit. And then? Stay tuned…
Leaving the Mug
You’ll find information about the Red Mug at:
Peace.
Mark
