Where do I Write?

 

Question: Can you guess where I’m writing this?

Answer: As I write, I’m sitting in the driver’s side of my car, parked in an illegal spot in an industrial park.

The very sensation that I might get my ass towed is actually what makes me so productive.  At any moment, a police officer might tap on my window.  Better yet, an angry pin-striped executive might come out and give me a few choice words.  God, sitting in someone else’s parking space makes me feel so alive:  watchful, wary, adrenelated.

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I’m an usual writer for one big reason:  I write like a bird.  I swoop down, roost—maybe even nest—and then I flutter off.  I only write in a spot if I’m feeling the vibes.

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Before this blissful moment today, I spent a month writing at my friends’ house.  I showed up, hung out.  I decided then and there that I would sprawl out on their couch for a while.  I laid out my flashcards on the Persian carpet and took over the guest bedroom.  Two weeks into this, I suddenly realized that this was exactly how my hosts got their most recent cat, an abandoned stray with piercing blue eyes.  It had done the same thing.  That cat did not like me.  It could see a fellow traveler—a rival, a nemesis and a double.  It’s blue eyes flashed like Northern Lights and it always managed to sit on my flashcards.

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I’d been writing at home for a while, spending most of the time on the purple couch in the living room.  That was nice.  But then my wife went away on a trip and the house felt lonely and empty.  As you know, I am writing about an alcoholic and, in all that emptiness, I began to feel the urge to drink.  So, I drank and drank and drank.  And then there was nothing in the house but empty bottles.  That’s when I decided that I should find a new place to write.

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Of course, I have an office.  It’s a special, separate office…and I even pay for it.  But it feels somehow un-right.  It’s cold.  I thought it would feel good but it doesn’t.  When I do work in it, I often perch on the other side of the desk where the visitor sits.  That temporariness is what makes the writing process move.  Offices, because they are made for the purpose, just feel like mousetraps.

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In Iowa, where I taught Creative writing, I had two offices both of which did not get much use—one provided by the college and one at home.  The official office was in an older Victorian building that used to be the women’s dorms.  It was picturesque and roomy and quaint.  I was on the fourth floor—the attic–with sloped ceilings and very civilized parlor furniture.  I hated it.  It reminded me that writing was actually a job that I was paid for; somehow, this managed to suck every ounce of pleasure away from the experience.

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I also had a home office.  I filled it with heavy wooden Craftsman furniture and decided that it would be a man’s lair:  so messy that nobody would dare enter it.  At the time, I had just seen the movie Beautiful Mind about a schizophrenic math professor—John Nash–who eventually wins the Nobel Prize.  This heavily influenced my décor.  Remember the crazy room in which he works out all sorts of connections with a collage-work of newspaper clippings and yarn?  That was the reference point in my head when I started to “decorate.”  It did become a good replica of that room.  And I did succeed in making it into a place that nobody would intrude into…including me.

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6 thoughts on “Where do I Write?

  1. Khanh – I love those ‘photos. And your main point – the effect on the writer of where s/he writes – is very well taken. I think each of us can take inspiration from where we write and like you, I think it can liven us up and add richness to our writing if we vary that place from time to time.

    • Now that I wrote this, I realize that writing often feels forbidden to me. I grew up in a big family–10 folks–packed into a 5 bedroom house. So, I was always going from place to place, room to room, looking for a new place to be alone. Every diary I ever wrote was read out loud by my brothers and sisters. This made me develop a secret language and a fugitive desire for a little corner all my own. Of course, this also means that now as an adult, I cannot stand to be alone!

  2. This struck a chord with me. I write most efficiently with a close deadline, and I’m used to writing things that are short. As you can imagine, my dissertation was a challenge. I spent several months as a peripatetic writer, moving from coffee shop to coffee shop…then wrote at my in-laws’ house for a week while in transit…and then once I got to Grinnell, well, I really had to finish. After moving into my new office, of course. I think I managed to do some writing in my graduate student offices, but only because I had three of them and lots of coffee shops in between.

    • What a great narrative, Janet. I think you’re in good company: the essayist, Samuel Johnson, loved to walk and write. He would go on walks with his friend, Richard Savage. And when inspiration struck, he would walk into a shop and ask for the use of a pen and paper. Then, he would jot stuff down and move forward. When I was doing research in Seattle–your grad skool spot–I loved to walk from coffee shop to coffee shop, too. They were all so awesome: Top Pot Donuts was my favorite. I loved the book shelves…

  3. I think my ideal writing space is something I carry around inside of me and I look for places outside of me that mirror that space. The writing room in my head is well-lit but not bright, quiet but not silent, smells like coffee, and holds me like a cupped palm. I find pieces of this room in the real world, but I think the only way to get it just right is to build it myself. So far, I’m leaning towards Twain’s gazebo writing room (http://www.fuelyourwriting.com/the-writing-spaces-a-tale-of-twains-two-spaces/)

    Although, a good doughnut shop would work until then!

    • Thomas–I have a friend who built his own writing room–literally…it was a free-standing structure in the back yard…then, he had to tear it down because it wasn’t built to code! To boot, his girlfriend broke up with him and he had a yard full of lumber. Well, he’s probably not having sex but still has got a lot of wood!

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