I write wherever I am, on whatever tool is convenient. If the body is tired and the eyes are acting up, it’s the hunt-and-peck method on the iPad, because it’s so easy to re-size the text.
Ideally, though, I like to write on the computer. With a legitimate keyboard. With a real mouse. It gives me room to spread out and indulge myself. The second monitor is a must, too, as my eyesight is getting worse and worse. The writing surface must be sturdy, as I tend to pound away at my writing, and I need a surface that can take the abuse. Either a series of mission tables, or the breakfast bar work well enough. (The picture above left is the breakfast bar, shortly before I set up the office computer over there, vs. the personal computer being in the window, overlooking the blue flowers and the side yard).
What goes on outside my window isn’t that important, as I’ll never be wealthy enough to live where I wish (or spendthrift enough to invest my money in a lake home, were I ever to have much in the way of $$$). I like to see the trees against the sky, and flowers bloom. I don’t mind the passage of neighbors, so long as they are polite and orderly, and not much is required of me.
Like many, I’ve worked the keyboard to death. Any keyboard that I actually use has only “chips” of letters remaining on often-used keys. Most keyboards I use have the “brows” of the letter M, two ^^ marks, as a hint of its original identity on the actual key. The “N” has left the room completely, and the “A” looks like it’s peeking around the corner, as if it’s always trying to make its escape from the next blow.
As for the writing space… Alas, I’m not the housekeeper I should be. I need to take a flamethrower to the computer space at home – it’s covered with bills and the detritus of life, and I’m trying to stop keeping all those papers… Ingrained habits are hard to best, though.
(Fred and Betty, circa 1942 or so; Betty and Nancy, circa 2002 or 2003)
My Mom, Betty, spent her life sitting at the kitchen table, with half of it covered in debris from her day or week of reading, unless company was coming or it was the weekly cleanup each Saturday. The important clippings migrated to be stacked on the radiator, waiting until she could mail them to a friend in a newsy card, or simply pull them out to comfort someone in their time of need.
My Mom was a great one for the comfort of poetry and the written word, and I miss her directing me to great authors that I’d otherwise skip because I don’t have her talent with mining mental pictures from poetry ingested only from reading the written word. Like music, I have to hear it first in order to “see” the story. THEN, and only then, can I go back to re-evaluate the written word, with someone else’s voice providing the rhythm in my head to color the poetry.
I do agree with Sparks about not listening to music while I’m composing. It changes things and colors the background, so I prefer to compose in silence, or with light noise on in the background to assure me I’m alive in this old world, even though the sound is low enough that I can easily tune it out and pretend it’s someone talking in another room when I’m home alone. The TV is a great comfort, even if it’s mostly on for company vs. actual watching.
Never will you hear the ticking of a clock in my house, as I love it relatively quiet but filled with light and sound. The fierce death knell of the clock reporting the passage of time is an incredible annoyance, forcing me inside a box where I don’t want to reside. We’ll all get to that box soon enough, thankyouverymuch, so I don’t want to hear about it when I’m otherwise filling my time with relaxing inspiration.
…….. “Redwood City Shoreline Sunset” and “Fremont Hills Moonrise”
Now, my other passions – drawing, painting, jewelry making? Got to have me some stories on audio or some music playing, as the talents of the writer are woven into every brushstroke and twisted wire I create while meditating on the art being created.
To share the suggestion of Sparks, “Where do you write?”
Inquiring minds want to know…