The playwright David Mamet once wrote a book called Writing in Restaurants, which I bought and remember nothing about except that great title. It appealed to me because that's what I did when I began writing — traipsed down the hill from my tiny house in a beach town to the only restaurant open for breakfast, ate a couple of poached eggs and wrote poem after poem.

Not everyone is willing to do this, but I'm the oldest of four kids and always did my homework at the kitchen table — the square roots and export crops of Nicaragua mingling with the sounds of family conversation, the dishwasher's gurgle, and Neil Young on the stereo. In my memory it was always raining.

If I stay home to write, my brain likes to remind me of all the things I should be doing instead — changing burned-out lightbulbs, working on my taxes, maybe repainting the living room — and it won't settle down. Somehow the din of a restaurant, with its random and comforting noises and nothing I need to worry about personally, helps me get my pen onto that blank page. The white noise of a busy place is perfectly balanced against the chatter in my head, and they cancel each other out.

I once read an article about everyone's need to have a third place — not home and not work - where they could go and feel comfortable and accepted, a place to belong. I think bars have functioned this way since the first tavern was invented, and libraries, donut shops, regular chess games in public parks. I like imagining the people huddled around stoves in the general stores of the 19th Century American west, warming themselves and swapping stories before heading back into their cold, hard-working lives. Or the barber shops of the '30s and '40s, like the one Wendell Berry conjured in his wonderful novel, Jayber Crow.

A third place is where you catch up with your community — get the latest gossip, find someone to buy your pick-up, or maybe even foment a little rebellion. Everyone knows you won't be there on Thursdays because that's the night you play poker with your mom at the rest home.

Writing in restaurants functions more like a fourth place for me. I'm looking for somewhere my friends rarely go, so I can actually get a little work done, but I want it warm and friendly. In a small town this isn't easy to find, and for a while I was reduced to writing at IHOP, which did nothing for my poetry. But I think I've found my spot. The prices are low, the coffee's hot, and at the right time of day I can take over a 4-top and spread my notebooks out. If you should happen to see me there, do me a favor and look the other way.

I'll catch up with you later, at our usual place, and don't worry, I'll tell you everything.