Writing Alone, Well Almost

Sitting at my hotel room desk, writing, I look up--gloating just a bit--over the view, the quiet, and the privacy.

I could sit here in the buff, I'm thinking.

Blue bliss.

Oops. What are these guys doing? End of revery.

Wide Open Desktops

At home, I have an office. It's my very own space. My files spill from the black metal drawers; cardboard boxes and stacks of paper litter the desk and floor; books cram the shelves. I feel fortunate to have a nook I can call my own--cinderblock walls, pockmarked drop ceiling, buckling linoleum floor and all.

Truly, I'm grateful. It's just that I never write in there. In fact, I never go in there if I can help it. I write on my laptop, in a chair in the middle of everything--in my living room.

My office has become a time-out place, a "get me out of here, NOW" zone. The tiny room seems more like a hall, a breezeway--if only there were a breeze--between the children's former playroom, now morphed into a saggy-couched entertainment center, and my husband's office.

His office? My husband's mother gave him an apt nickname: kudzu. Last night, when I was trying to squeeze past the flight attendant who was pushing the dinner cart down the economy aisle, I said to myself, this experience reminds me of something. What? Ah, yes. Trying to get around in my husband's office.

Every day some of kudzu's stuff migrates into my space.


Here, in a hotel in Doha, Qatar, I have a curvy wooden desk holding only the books and the one manilla file I brought with me. Nobody passes through. Nothing piles up. All I hear is the hum of the airconditioning. I could get a lot of writing done here.

But I could at home too. In a tiny corner of his house, Paul Silvia wrote How to Write A Lot. The book features a workplace photo--desk, lamp, laptop, trash can. Period. Kind of like my photo above. His modest setup proves, he tells us in no uncertain terms, that we don't need retreats or fancy office digs in order to write, that complaining about our space, or lack of it, is just another excuse for not writing.

In my dreams I'm writing at a clear-surfaced home office desk--the room clean and quiet. Right now, awake, nothing trumps a hotel.

Seriously. We're cats.

This is our last post for a while. Yes, we've missed a few days but what do you expect? We're cats. Just try to train us.
Write about your attempts to tame or train something. And good luck.

Shadows

Write about your shadow, or somebody else's.

Sharing a bed

Write about sleeping with somebody.

What do you expect?

Some of you are wondering why we don't post at the same time every day, why we miss some days. We are cats, that's why. Need I say more?
Write about what you expect.

Count on him

I can always count on him to make messes for me to get into.
Write about somebody you can count on.

Who is smarter?

This is our new cousin Mimi, who also likes books. We're afraid she's smarter than we are.
Write about a fear.

Where to sit

What? How to choose a chair? What are these people doing?
Write about picking a place to sit.

Time out

Write about time out or spending time in the corner.

Who are you, really?

Write about a time when you pretended to be someone/something you aren't.

(I've given this prompt before--not in this context--and some creatures can't come up with anything. I'm embarrassed to admit that it's easy for me. I even pretend to be a dog sometimes.)

A Chair of One's Own

Virginia Woolf writes about having a room of one's own for writing--I don't need a room of my own, as long as they have rooms and piles of papers I can lie on. What I do like is a chair of my own. And this is one of mine.

Write about a favorite chair, a favorite place to sit or stretch out.

Feeling stuck.

Write about a time when you felt stuck.

Where is it?

Write about looking for something ordinary that you can't find.

Feeling Framed

Write about a time you felt framed.

We're so glad

We're so glad we're cats and not pigs. Write an ode to what or who you are.

And here's a paean to the onion, which, by the way, we wouldn't dream of eating.

An Easter Centerpiece

She shoos me off tables and counters when people are over but, hey, I look good on the sideboard, better than the side dishes.

Write about an Easter dinner.

Saturday

Sorry we're late posting today. Too much cat TV. Back on it tomorrow--in the morning.

Write about a Saturday.

Taking the Sun

This is one of my favorite sunning spots. I don't go outdoors and would be too scared to relax in the real sun if I did. Here, I'm under a skylight and on my favorite rug.

Write about sunbathing.

Playing

Here's one of my favorite toys. The feathers tickle me and the furry part smells catnipy. I rub against it, toss and chase it, hide it under stuff, and nuzzle the feathers.

Write about what you like to play with and why. You may be a grown-up. I am too; I'm almost three and for a cat that's post-teen, but I still play. And I know you do too. If you get stuck, start with how you played as a child.