When I took a year off school and moved across the country to Charleston, South Carolina to write the first draft of Waiting at Hayden’s ten years ago, I knew very little about writing a book; all I did know was that I needed to get my story idea down on paper. I think that’s the case for most writers—and to be honest, it’s sort of wonderful to only know that and nothing more. If you’re in the early stages of writing a book, the words are flowing, and you’re feeling that “writers high,” feel . . .
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 . . .