In the ten years I’ve been writing Waiting at Hayden’s I’ve moved several times, and each time I’ve had to find a new workspace. Sometimes that workspace has been outside the house. When I was living in Charleston, South Carolina I wrote six to eight hours a day at the two-story Starbucks on King Street (that was until the barista informed me that the cookie I ordered every single day was “bad for me.” I then started going to a place called Baked on East Bay Street—not because they had healthier . . .