No, not the movie, although the I can say that my color printer has narrowly evaded a fate similar to where they destroy the fax machine with a sledge hammer. It wears ‘Never working when I need it’ as a badge of honor.
But we’re talking about where I write. Unfortunately, the answer for most of this year has been nowhere. Exhaustion, stress, no creative energy, and all the usual excuses have been there. I’m slowly making my way back. I’m not quite into a routine yet, but I also don’t look at my manuscript and feel like I don’t know how to do it.
My writing desk moved this year. Last year it was in the kitchen. I had a great view of the back yard and part of the driveway. I could see if the kids were playing outside without having to venture into the snow with them. This worked fairly well, except that there isn’t any insulation in the wall there and it was freezing despite the space heater tucked under my desk.
And there’s the dog. With me working in the kitchen, that left her in the living room by herself, staring forlornly out the window until the kids arrived home from school, doubling and tripling her separation anxiety. So for the dog’s sake, I had to rearrange the furniture in pretty much the whole house to move my desk into the living room.
My desk now faces the street and my dog can be enthralled with the excitement of me typing on my computer or sewing at the dining room table. (I suspect she is not so easily fascinated, but we’re going with the illusion.)
I’m not sure how old my desk it, but it’s been around as long as I can remember. It was in my brother’s room in my mom’s basement with his retainer in the drawer. (No longer there, thank goodness.) Then my mom moved it to her sewing room and used it there. When she found a different table, I was able to abscond with it and made it my sewing table. When kids came, the sewing stuff was put away for awhile and writing stuff took over the desk. It moved upstairs to the alcove that I never wanted to be in. It was too far removed from the rest of the house.
So sometimes I write in the living room at my desk, or sometimes I move to the loveseat and sit next to the dog if she will scoot over enough for my bum to fit. I have the best intentions to use the desk my husband made for my treadmill and walk and write, but that hasn’t happened as often as it should.
And tonight, I am writing in none of the above. I’m sitting on the upstairs couch (while my husband sits in the alcove, he doesn’t mind the space) and have my laptop propped on an old suitcase because the battery is super hot.