There is no coffee in the Hobo Hotel. But there is free Internet.
It is a small, grey room with two double beds and a giant window air-conditioner shoved between them. There is a TV and a small kitchenette with a hot plate and a microwave, but no oven.
It’s a small space for three people to live in for a week. My two-year old is bouncing off the walls, literally. I’m trying to get him interested in “Sixteen Candles.” There is no On Demand at the Hobo Hotel. He’s not having it.
Some writers hole up in hotels to write their books. I can’t imagine staying in this place all day to write a book. I think if you rent a hotel room to write, it’s got to be someplace fancy like The Ritz where you actually want to sit down and enjoy the scenery.
There is no scenery here. Just gray walls and a television set.
This the kind of place where people get wasted, have rough sex and pass out.
I wake up early and think about writing. It is freezing and the air-conditioner sounds like an airliner, rattling around beside me. It’s loud and dank and all I want to do is get out of here and actually get to my day job on time for once. I take a few notes, then shiver under the covers.
We only have to do this for a week. But my whole writing life feels shot.
When I’m not writing, I don’t feel like a writer. I feel like somebody who lives in the Hobo Hotel and hasn’t washed their clothes in over a week. I feel like — what’s the point?