{scraps of things from the pocket of an old coat}

Saturday, July 16, 2011

i was cleaning my writing desk today -- high days and holidays, you know -- falling in love with this space i've burrowed out here in the corner of the bedroom.

i think i'm supposed to wish for my own writing room -- and indeed, i have visions of a garden studio -- one half set up for painting and whatnot and the other half devoted entirely to the weaving of words.  i've imagined old, white-painted wooden tables and mismatched chairs. i think there's a wood-stove there too, for when the autumn days turn chilly.  of course it will have to be insulated so i can go there in winter as well.

but for now, i need to be in amongst my family.  my art table is in a corner of the living room -- which means i'm with the children as they're going about their little bits and pieces.

my writing desk though...that needs to be separate. i need the illusion of solitariness -- of isolation -- so that i can sink deep into the rushing waters of inspiration.

although i don't enjoy clutter in the slightest, one might accuse my writing desk of being rather so.  it's certainly a pain in the backside to dust all the bits of things and i'm constantly threatening to shave the cats bald for all the hair they leave behind as they blithely tread upon sacred ground.

i wonder, then, why i spend so little time here. it's quite perfect, really and i do adore it very much. i make the excuse that my chair is the wrong height. it's just a crappy old wooden kitchen chair that i scavenged from the rubbish heap. my desk is an old secretary's desk that was designed for the height of ancient typewriters -- so my skinny laptop rests too low on the surface.

i don't want to buy an adjustable chair because i'm rather fond of my old wooden one - hideously uncomfortable though it is.

i had carpal tunnel syndrome in years gone by -- all that shoveling of horse manure -- and my wrists are easily aggravated if things are at the wrong height.

so those are my excuses for not writing.

but i just had the brain-wave to put my computer up on something -- to make it higher.

it's now resting on a  rather disappointing volume called "The Element Encyclopaedia of Magical Creatures". it's disappointing because it has no illustrations. i had ordered it because it was only $5.

but i'm wondering if a bit of osmosis might seep upwards into the brain of my computer and enchant my fingers so they'll write the stories that are itching to escape.

for now, though, i need to get back to my housework. i just wanted to test the height of the computer. i think it's okay...although my left wrist is starting to ache a bit.


Rose said...

Here's a thought..... Maybe you could write in a book with a pen and then type it up? Walk around your house and garden with book and pen until you find a spot that feels right to sit in and write...

I love your ideas of lovely studios... I want one too! I have no idea why you are not able to put the stories down with ease, but I wish you could because I love your writing so much....

adie said...

I have trained myself to create a sense of isolation in the middle of others by putting headphones in.

I tend to think when you come up with excuses for not writing, writing simply doesn't want to come.