Writing Places and Head Spaces

I used to go to coffee shops where I would sit for hours, churning out pages, feeling salty and sassy and writerly. And then my coffee cup was empty and my bladder so full my lower half danced a jig, so I’d pack up all of my valuables and head to the bathroom. If a table was free when I re-emerged, I’d go for round two, unless I was so jittery from caffeine I thought I might appear like an addict or like I should be receiving some kind of medical treatment for tremors. Writing at Starbucks and CBTL became trendy and crowded, and especially in my younger days, made me a target for unwanted suitors. Okay, maybe I was just a tad bit flattered if I got some attention. But mostly, I just wanted to be left alone to pour my heart out through my fingertips. Now, I write at home because it’s where I live. And there’s food, and a vacant bathroom. It’s comfortable. Kind of.

I’m all set up, nice and cozy, with a vodka, soda, and lime, with an icepack on my back, with my thighs pressed against the underside of my desk apron because I can’t get all the way under it unless I sit on the floor like I’m in an elementary school earthquake drill. It’s not even really my desk. I inherited it because it was here at my fiancé’s house when I moved in. I don’t fit here, but I'm trying to make room for my artistic aspirations. And I’ve only recently begun writing here in an attempt to find comfort, solace, hope, and attitude. 

I always listen to music when I write. It drowns out the noise. And it brings the memory, the pain, and the proper mood; it shuts out reality and opens doors to my soul. It’s also this way when I take walks outside listening to my iPod. I write poems in my head, trying to commit them to memory so I can write them down when I get home. But this is a poor strategy, akin to trying to remember a dream for the duration of my morning shower. Somewhere between the shampooing and the toweling off, the vivid colors and scenes have lifted themselves from me with the rising steam. But still, the music is love. And listening to it must be similar to sleeping—to dreaming—because it forces me to wax poetic silence, dropping little stars into my heart. 

I have never made a creative space for myself. I’ve always been the nomadic writer, but I can’t really write just anywhere. Physically, I can do anything because I am a superhero. But emotionally, chaos and clutter muck up my braintooth. It's difficult to write at will, at the drop of a hat, on a moment's notice--despite the thousands of people (well maybe just a few family members, friends, and other writers, but they’ve repeated themselves a lot) who claim that a “real writer can write anywhere.” Apparently, it only requires discipline to be a writer. I suppose this would still hold true if I were drowning. And maybe, yes, I could write to the inspiring aria of my death. But alas! Once I’d transcended to the afterlife, the words would be gone from me the same as my flesh! Oh, the cruel trickery of Heaven. Or Hell. 

I’ve known writers who carry little books with them so they may be prepared at a moment’s notice to write down the next great first line of the next great American novel. I lack discipline in this routine as well. I’ve spent a small fortune on pretty, small notebooks, Moleskin journals, and pads of paper. Strangely, it seems that when I carry them in my purse, my muse vacations in the Bahamas. And on the rare occasion that I start writing a masterpiece in my head and reach for that snappy little book I praised myself for buying, I seem to have forgotten to put it in my purse when I transitioned from the previous purse. I may be over-reaching in my commitment to fashion, and underachieving in my commitment to writing. But you don’t see me now, sitting here with a crossbody bag that matches my moccasin slippers, do you? Ah! Writing it is. I can make auspicious decisions. All hope is not lost.

And so I beat on…with fantasies of perfect writing spaces dancing in my head. I keep writing, borne back against the wood of this crummy pine desk. I can see it now—my writing future—replete with ergonomic adjustments, numerous shelving, a printer with USB cord attached. Or. Or! Wireless printing capabilities. I know I’m getting a bit carried away here, but what is a writer if not a dreamer? George Bernard Shaw so wisely taught me, “You see things; and you say ‘Why?’ But I dream things that never were; and I say ‘Why not?’” Of course, Shaw’s famous words were spoken by The Serpent to Eve, but that’s of little consequence. I dream this writing space that never was and someday, when I move to San Diego in four months, I will say to myself, “Why not get myself a desk built for a human adult?” This is more than temptation; it is destiny.

Tomorrow, I will write in a coffee shop just to mix things up a bit. I’m a creature of habit but it will be nice to get out and socialize with my local barista, fellow caffeine fiends, and potential unsolicited gentlemen callers (I love my husband). This will be a daring feat, I know, since it will involve a hint of extroversion and inevitably put my bladder in extremis. But I can do this. I’m a writer.