Writing isn’t a job I can do anywhere. I used to think that. I used to think all you need is a piece of paper or your laptop and you are set–anytime and anywhere.
But I’m learning that’s not true. I’m learning that I am a creature of habit. And a part of that habit is the environment around me.
I’ve been away from my office for a few weeks now. The first week was fine, it was great to be away from the computer, taking some time off. But, now, weeks later, I am itching to get back to the work that I have left unfinished.
AND I CAN’T DO IT. I’m CRAVING being back in my office. My chair–and it’s actually a bit uncomfortable. My cup of coffee. My ukulele (seriously, some day, I will take lessons.) I am looking to be surrounded by the junk on my walls and bookshelves–I’m looking at you, looking at me Luke Skywalker toy.
My office has become my safety blanket. Totally and absolutely. My own personal territory. Where I am free to explore and imagine. It’s like the best place to play. Free of distraction (except for the kind that I create).
Time and space. Important for me as a writer. Now, if only I could get my wife to move her stuff out of the office, it would be perfect.