Had a change in plans this morning. Normally I wake up at 4 AM, get on the road 45 minutes later and then, arriving in the city, settle down for an hour or so of writing at my usual writing desk inside the coffee shop next to the small sushi joint and coincidentally across the street from the Krispy Kreme donut store. Not that the proximity of fresh hot donuts matter to those trying to become the next Hemingway, but it doesn’t hurt, either.
Today, however, for a variety of reasons, I am writing at the house. Almost.
I did wake up around 4, so no change there, but because we are car sharing this morning in order to save $18 in tolls and $12 in gas (our daily cost for a trip “to town,”) I had decided to work on the novel from the comfort of my overstuffed easy chair. Easier said than done. First, my OCCD (obsessive compulsive cleaning disorder) found me putting away the clean dishes and washing the dirty ones that somehow escaped my wrath last night. Then, the cat demanded food and the dogs, well they did not want to miss the party, either. Food for everyone!
Finally, I plugged the laptop power cord in to the wall outlet, hoping to pen something showing Bick Parker talking his way out of a murder charge. Alas, to no avail. We remembered the day was past due for the trio of quadrapeds to receive their monthly you-live-in-the-country-so-they-need-these-pills medicine. It helps that they like the pills but the cat was not overly thrilled with liquid flea medicine applied behind her head.
Now, chores done and plenty of time remaining before we have to get on the road to take me to my real job (work, remember?) I sit back down and fire up the computer.
This isn’t working – it’s writing.’
I find it near impossible to write about murder, corrupt officials, deception, intrigue, and other such things when I can look up and see the lush greenery beyond our fence, the tall branches of trees gently blowing in the breeze coming in off the Atlantic. Birds of all types are singing their little songs, interrupted only by the snoring emanating from the two puppies, one of which is in my lap as I try to type.
There’s something to be said about being in the right environment to write. If I were scribbling poetry, this might be the perfect setting. But I’m not a poet by any stretch of the imagination. I love living in the country, but I write about the seedier side of life, the darkness that comes from neon lights in tavern windows, the people who have walked down the wrong lane in life and now find themselves doing things they would never tell their mother. The coffee shop, unfortunately, isn’t a tavern. That said, however, the impersonal hustle of “regular” customers, mixed in with the people who just seem to wander in for no reason other than it is a stop on their journey makes my corner table a perfect observation point. The writing works.
I’m sure you have a preferred space in which your writing flows better. Mine seems to be the coffee shop. On the plus side, I had time to catch up on the blog, so there’s a win. Bick will just have to remain in custody until tomorrow morning.