Hey, tablemates! Sorry to interrupt your Zoom call or spreadsheeting or whatever pulled you to our neighborhood coffee shop to squat for six hours. It has come to my attention that several of you feel there is something “off” about my behavior. You’re worried that I’m a “loose cannon” with my erratic hand gestures and bizarre mumblings. Allow me to explain.

Like many of you at this fine pine table, I am working. Just like the guy who asked me once to watch his stuff while he ran to the can, and now assumes I’ll look out for his computer and personal belongings every five minutes when he gets up to take a call. He’s “working” as a vibing out-of-work tech bro. Me? I am from a different breed of worker. I am a writer.

I am sure several of you are also writers. You get it. Writing is a solitary act, even in the hustle of a café. When I sit down at our table with my pot of black tea and excessive sugar packs, throw my headphones on to drown you people out, and perch my fingertips upon the keyboard, I am in the zone, feeding off the juicy energy emitting from all of you busy bees. Hopefully, it’s reciprocal, and I’m pulsing some of that sweet, efficient vigor back in your direction. You’re welcome.

So, what’s with the dramatic gesturing and self-talk? It’s not you, it’s me. I’m working on my novel and have come to realize, after I glimpsed my spirited reflection in the window, that I go full Method acting when it comes to crafting my characters. As I write them, I become them, embody them.

My protagonist is narcoleptic, so when I am letting my head drop dangerously close to you and that chai latte you’re holding, I am not actually falling asleep, but rather trying to get inside both the physical and psychological experience of crashing out on a stranger’s shoulder. In my mind and body (note the fluttering eyelids and slouched torso), I am not sitting among you, while you do whatever it is you are doing; instead, I’m seconds from launching into a surrealistic dream-filled sleep on a Manhattan-bound L train in New York City circa 2002. Did you see how my head popped up so quickly as I returned to my writerly state and really went for it on the keyboard? That’s Method! Pure inspo.

Remember when I gagged like five times in a row, and three of you couldn’t help but stare in my direction? I wasn’t actually choking, though. Thanks to no one for coming to my rescue. My protagonist is touch-phobic due to a rather unfortunate event in her childhood involving a certain mammal who likes to roll around in the mud. Pardon the mystery, but hopefully, you are intrigued! The gagging on repeat was my attempt to get into my character’s head. My apologies if you mistook the excessive heaving as an emergency (clearly you didn’t) or my general disgust with someone at our table. On the contrary, I am quite content sitting here with all of you.

I should mention that I’m married. At this point in my novel, my touch-phobic protagonist is hosting a cuddle party (hello, rising action) at her apartment to make some fast cash. Think platonic orgy. So, when I’m caressing my neck, tousling my hair, and purring ever so slightly, I’m not coming on to any of you. I repeat, I’m not coming on to you. Sorry for the sexy vibes, especially you with the Dell laptop at the end, who keeps giving me the wink. And, no, I’m not about to go all When Harry Met Sally coffee shop scene on our table. In my realm, I’m actually two people; I’m two bodies entangled in the classic “koala in a tree” cuddle position. We’re stroking and hugging each other, letting those feel-good hormones kick into overdrive. Disregard my moans.

Thanks to the Method, it’s like the book is writing itself. I probably need to give you a heads up. I’m about to write a scene where I actually puke behind a pillow. I mean, not me, but my protagonist blows chunks. Since I’m so Method right now, my mind is swirling with some pretty disgusting thoughts. You know when you’ve seen someone throw up in front of you, and then you start to feel the spit pooling in the bottom of your mouth, and your stomach caves in on itself? I’m truly sorry, but I’m going all Daniel Day-Lewis on this one. For those in proximity, I would consider clearing your things or anything of value. Apologies, but it’s all for the craft!

Thanks so much, tablemates, for the support. Now scram, unless you want bile on your bag.