All in a Dither
What with the interior painting going on in our home, I do not have my usual writing spot. Disoriented am I. Displaced. I need I need I need, I want I want I want. My special writing place. I need my computer on the table, and the light falling from the window, and my files in the filing cabinet rather that heaped into boxes spread out in the family room. Yet at some level I know I'm lying. Truth is I don't require a just-right environment to write. The writing doesn't depend on my surroundings but on my internal landscape. Some places where I've written: on many a staircase, in backseats of buses, on fire escapes, in post office lines, in snowstorms, during blackouts, in doctors' waiting rooms, while trailing feet in a river, sitting on a curb, huddled under a raincoat in a downpour, peering from a cramped tent in the wilderness, in the bathtub, behind a locked door with a tantruming toddler on the other side, in church (one of the best places to write, actually), in a sweaty hostel full of snoring travelers, in a clothes closet, at a job interview, while driving (by means of a tape recorder), outside dressing rooms, on commandeered retail furniture in second-rate department stores beside noisy checkout counters. What little lie are you buying? Fill in the blank: "I can't write (or ______) unless I have my ________________." Now go ahead and prove to the universe that your creativity does not depend on this comfy but external artifact.
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