Sometimes the best stories come to you when you least expect it.
At least that’s the way it happened to me.
Ever since I left upstate New York a little more than two years ago, I’ve been living in a small town in the Midwest where the only place for a writer to sit and write and have a good cup of coffee is the local grocery store. The place has none of the ambience of a coffee house. No warm and complementary colors on the wall. No wood furniture. No art on the walls. No jazz or alternative music. It has all the characteristics of a junior high school cafeteria without the food fights.
But it’s all I got.
I’ve become somewhat of a fixture here. People even joke that there should be a placard fixed on the wall by the booth where I always sit: “Writer at...
