I’m feeling like a displaced oyster at the moment. (Bear with me on this.) When I moved back home I knew I’d be setting up my computer in my bedroom, which although swims in fitted furniture, doesn’t swim with a desk. So my options were balancing the PC on top of a chest of drawers, or on top of a dresser.
I tried the first option for a while but had to sit on my bed and twist around into the Uncomfortable Writer pose. After a while something had to give (chiefly my knees) and I shifted camp to the second option. This meant I could sit on a chair (whoop!) but again only at a diagonal as my knees fight the hard drive, which always wins (‘cos it’s hard, innit?).
If that wasn’t bad enough, the PC has decided to die a long loud death and doesn’t like me working on it anymore. I know I need to give it some more memory but the thought of chiselling off its dusty casing fills me with dread, especially as I seem to be Static Girl with anything shiny. Can Static Girl cause explosions? I’m not sure north London wants me to find out.
So the other option is working downstairs on a laptop. This means I get to sit at a table (double-whoop!) but have to pack everything away sharpish if people want to, say, eat dinner at the table, or anything strange like that. So I am constantly shifting folders of notes everywhere and have ended up in a noteworthy muddle. It also means I have to be shit hot at typing through Eastenders and conversations, as well as very dedicated to not spend the evening being sucked into films like Back to the Future. (Although who can fail to be charmed by lines like ‘the flux capacitor is fluxing nicely’?)
I feel like my writing needs a little corner to call its own. Some place that I’ve pegged off to say this area is for writing and typing. There is one other option by the cats litter tray but it doesn’t feel that auspicious, does it? I don’t suppose Tolkien started creating hobbits surrounded by Fussy Puss Litter, Extra Strength. It just feels a bit wrong. I know some authors write in their shed, but our shed has shed things in it. Perching on top of a lawn-mower being watched by spiders doesn’t appeal either.
Ah well, I know I’ll work around this and sort something out. Sometimes I think my brain spins up excuses for me to not write, as if I ‘can’t’ do it then I can’t send things away and my stories can’t be rejected. Oh brain, you cunning annoying thing, you. I don’t want this sort of protection – I want to get going!