Squawk Radio
Thursday, July 14, 2005
KITTY KUTTLESTONE INTERVIEWS JULIA QUINN: PART TWO
KITTY:
Rumor has it that you do alot of your writing at Starbuck's, which I sorta understand as I do most of my best work under the table at Beef's Biker Bar, but hey! each to his own, right? Anyway, what's up with that? Do you have some Hunkadero whipping up the foam on your lattes? Is it located across the street from a men's kick-boxing club? Are there stacks of "Playgirl" in the magazine caddy? Come on, tell us, Julie Q, where do you get your ideas?
JULIA:
Ah, Starbuck's. Land of the double-tall nonfat caramel macchiato (not too sweet, please). Scene of the never-ending struggle to gain access to one of the three tables located conveniently next to an electrical outlet. Home of my eternal internal struggle--do I dare to eat a peach torte?
.
Let us go then, you and I,
Where the caffeine is spread out oh-so high
Like a writer slumped upon a table;
Let us go, through certain frenetic streets,
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'
Let us go and make our visit.
.
In the cafe writers come and look
Pretending they can write a book.
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And would it have been worth it, after all,
Afer the cups, the coffee, the tea,
Among the lattes, among some talk of Penelope,
Would it have been worth while,
To have attempted to write it with a smile,
To have squeezed the story onto my computer screen
To roll it towards some overwhelming climax,
To say: 'I am Writer, desperate and on deadline,
Come here to write this thing,
I shall write this thing'--
And then, realizing the words are wrong,
Should say: 'That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.'
.
I grow tired... I grow tired...
The deadline on my contract has expired.
.
Shall I sip my milky drink?
Do I dare to write a scene?
I shall ponytail my hair, and stare sightlessly at my screen.
I have heard the muses singing, lean and mean.
.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
.
We have lingered amongst the dark, heav'nly brew
By baristas wreathed with aprons and the night
Till words do find us, and we write.
Connie Brockway, 2:16 PM
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