The best work I did all week was sitting in Barnes & Noble with a cranberry orange scone. I had an hour to kill while Liz shopped at Cost Plus. It was only two pages. Two really good pages, but it was enough to put a serious hurt on my personal funk. Writing isn't supposed to be this deep exploration of your own soul. It should be hard work at the same desk for every page of the project, that's what all the writers who wrote books about writing seem to indicate.
Why do I seem to find inspiration in noisy public places that wreak havoc on my anxiety?
It seems conceivable in the world we live that writers will become more a product of our busy society, in sync with the heavy amount of transition that occurs daily. My good friend Nick lent me a book written by Steven King about writing. I think Steven and I would battle fiercely about the best setting in which to write. He craves a large desk, in a quiet place, the same setting every time. I end up sitting in a converted (but cozy) garage, coffee shops, my car, other people's houses, a bench at the mall (on black friday no less) restaurants and hospitals.
Inspiration seems to find me everywhere and my laptop my perpetual companion.
Maybe its attention I crave. Typing furiously while speed metal is blaring in my headphones gets a look or two wherever I go. Never mind the people I've freaked out by taking pictures of odd things. More than a few probably think I'm a domestic terrorist taking pictures of industrial buildings, overhead doors (yes, I think they're cool), and barbed wire (you find it in the oddest places).
"What are you doing?" they'll ask somewhat startled.
"I'm writing a book about urban elementalism." I answer deadpan.
Yeah I guess I do dig the act of spooking normal people. Breaking up the work-a-day haze like a lightning bolt of pure strange.