Where do you write?
Today I made a video about my industrial-style office. I outline where I do my writing, the story of how my office came to be and a fruitcake!
No, I didn’t mean me.
(Fruitcake jokes are so 1993 anyway.)
But first, a story!
A TERRIBLE CURSE
I have borne a terrible curse these many years. Probably because of all the bad stuff I’ve done. This curse is called:
The Curse of the Crying Baby
If I leave home, a crying baby appears—seemingly out of nowhere. Grocery stores, freeways, Justin Bieber concerts. On any given midnight, I could be checking the mail and hear a distant wail of baby freaking out.
So when I started writing seriously I went to Barnes and Noble, Cafés, the Library. Amazingly, everywhere I went, the crying baby would find me. Some lady would be dragging her kid across the floor as she stared bleary-eyed, looking at coffee selections, while her demon child wailed in all tongues, including pig Latin .
So I decided to change venues. I started writing in the library at the local college. Guess what, crying baby was there too. And I’m not just talking about the teachers.
Crying baby was in the park. Crying baby was at the hospital cafeteria. Crying baby floated on the wind as I tried to write on my yacht in the middle of the ocean (all writers own yachts, because its such a fun word to spell. We also eat a lot of borscht by the licht of a lamps. We are weird critters).
Problem is, baby crying is my kryptonite. After I hear it, some other primal part of me wakes up and I can no longer write.
Strangely though, I can knit. A lot.
So I had to bunk up. Make shelter. Fend off those demon babies.
Let me tell you how.
YES, VIRGINIA WOOLF, THERE IS A WRITING CLAUSE
Virginia Wolf famously wrote an essay called “A Room of One’s Own” in which she posited the idea that writers (especially of the female variety) need two things:
Interestingly, she didn’t mean space money—which hasn’t yet been invented because we haven’t yet colonized space. But as soon as we do, maybe she’ll update things:
She also said nothing about crying babies. I’m prit-tee sure she wouldn’t like them though.
Because I slavishly follow the advice pounded into me in English 1010, I took Virginia Woolf’s essay to heart and decided to colonize space—er—make a room of my own.
I made myself my ideal writing space. And here I am, in the office of my weirdest dreams. Rudy, my giant wooden guy, is in here with me. No babies are crying.
Then I made a video.
I did not make a fruitcake. Those don’t exist any more. They have all been confiscated as the latest NASA terraform project. Soon, these fruitcakes will save us all. But more on that another time.
For now, a video!
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