Some debates in the writing world are legendary.
Plotter vs. Pantser.
Series vs. Standalone.
Pen vs. Keyboard.
But the one that seems to ignite the most passion?
Coffee vs. Tea.
For me, the answer is simple: coffee wins. Every time.
Now, to be fair, I enjoy both. There are moments when a warm cup of Vermont Maple Ginger tea just hits the spot perfectly. It’s calming, smooth, and great when you want something a little gentler.
But at the end of the day… I’m a coffee guy.
Coffee is part ritual, part survival tool, and part personality trait. Writers and coffee have had a long-standing relationship for centuries. It fuels early mornings, late nights, editing sessions, rewrites, and those moments when the blinking cursor feels like it’s judging your life choices.
In fact, I wrote about coffee in my memoir The Quiet After the Sirens, and I think it sums up my relationship with the drink pretty well.
I’ve been a coffee guy since the Army—when instant coffee in a canteen cup could feel like a miracle in the field. Somewhere along the way, I went from drinking it for survival to savoring it like an art form. Dark roast is my favorite—the stronger, the better. The kind that kicks you in the teeth a little before it smooths out in your chest.
There’s something grounding about that. Bold flavor, bitter edge, full body. It wakes something in me besides just my nervous system. Still, I’m not above mixing it up.
Sometimes I throw in a little Maple French Toast roast to sweeten the edges, or even a bit of Blueberry Crumble from Stewart’s—don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.
I’ll brew that right after a shift, while the gear’s still drying and the weight of the night hasn’t quite lifted. It’s comfort. It’s routine. It’s home in a cup.
But my go-to? Dunkin. Every time. It’s reliable, familiar. There’s something about the burnt edge of that coffee that just works for me.
For years, I swore off Starbucks—Donkey Shit Coffee, that’s what I always called it. Too pretentious. Too pricey. Too bitter without depth. Like that exotic stuff people brag about—beans crapped out by some animal in a jungle somewhere, cleaned up, and sold for a hundred bucks a pound like it’s liquid gold. No thanks. At least with real donkey shit, you know what you’re getting.
It always struck me the same way: overhyped, over-roasted, and somehow still underwhelming. Give me something bold, something with guts. Not something dressed up with Italian names and a side of attitude.
Funny thing is, though… even Donkey Shit Coffee grows on you after enough late nights and long shifts.
Somewhere along the line, even Starbucks started tasting like comfort. You stop caring about taste when you just need something hot and caffeinated to keep your hands from shaking and your eyelids from closing. Coffee becomes less of a beverage and more of a survival tool.
But nothing—and I mean nothing—beats the absolute perfect taste and aroma of Stagecoach Coffee in Cooperstown.
That place wasn’t just a coffee shop; it was a ritual. If you got lucky enough to transport a patient up that way, it was an unspoken rule that you had to stop at Stagecoach, especially if you were riding with Em. It didn’t matter if you were running behind or dead on your feet; that detour was non-negotiable.
The rich, bold roast, the atmosphere of worn wood floors and the quiet hum of conversation—it was a small, sacred moment of normalcy in a world that often felt anything but normal.
But no matter where we were, no matter how many hipster coffee shops or gas station brews we hit along the way, I’ll always stand by my first love: Dunkin’. No frills. No posturing. Just coffee that kicks you in the chest, grabs you by the collar, and keeps your damn eyes open when the world is falling apart. It’s not about gourmet flavors or latte art; it’s about that first scalding sip that says, “Alright, kid, time to get back in the fight.”
So yes, tea has its place.
But coffee?
Coffee is a ritual, a memory, a survival tool, and sometimes the only thing standing between a writer and total exhaustion.
And in my world, that first hot sip still feels like a small victory.
Interested in reading more of The Quiet After the Sirens? Grab a copy at a reduced price.
