When I was young, I had glamorous visions of where writers would sit to do their creating. I pictured large, polished wood desks gleaming in the sunlight drifting in through large windows. The desk was always neat, uncluttered. The chair was high-backed leather. No distractions entered into the writer’s domain. His or her office was this shiny, well-lit, quiet spot where creative juices flowed uninterrupted by the world.
The author in my daydreams was always distinguished. This person looked the part. These authors wore nice outfits and sipped fancy coffees while they typed. They worked during the day, during specific hours, in a specific place. Often they had offices outside of their homes, with secretaries screening their calls.
I am now one of those authors I used to daydream about. And that daydream is not my reality.
I have an office/library, which takes up most of the back of our house. It’s a long, somewhat narrow room. Our house is an open floor plan, so the living room and kitchen both open into this room. There are no doors to close. I have a desk but it’s painted a cream color and it’s never neat and uncluttered. While no humans occupy my space during most weekdays, I have two dogs that bark constantly and two cats that think my lap is there for the taking. The phone rings right at those moments when an idea sparks and the neighbors behind us like to party on the days I would most like silence.
Aside from the desktop in the office space, I often write using my laptop. I sit on the couch, surrounded by spoiled animals. I type a paragraph and let a dog out. I type another and answer the phone. I curl up under blankets when it’s cold and sprawl out in my pajamas when I’m feeling lazy. Sometimes I take the laptop to bed with me and write late at night when everyone is asleep. Other times I take it outside beneath the palm tree in my backyard.
My work area is often as cluttered as my mind. I have no specific times when I write or don’t, no specific area that is defined as my own. I’m sure there are authors who work as those in my daydreams did. I’m not one of them. Creativity doesn’t come from a place or an uncluttered desk. It doesn’t matter if you’re wearing old sweats or a designer suit. The words we write come from a place that knows no boundaries. So write in your underwear if that’s what makes you happy. When writing is something you’re meant to do, all that matters is that you write.
