Where Do You Write?

I have a very dull fiberboard desk I bought at Wal-Mart maybe eight years ago. Surrounding my laptop are piles of paper, post-notes, stray computer cables, a little  jade tree, two little buddhas, books, pens, a polished stone skull and other scraps. I painted the office a pleasing green tea color (looks like green tea ice cream). I put book shelves up last summer, but there are more books scattered on the floor. Next to the desk is the small table I use to tie flies. Under that are crates of fur, feathers, hooks and thread. I can see the trees and sunrises out my window, and if I crane my neck around I can see my little goldfish pond and the veggie garden. Why am I telling you this? Because in the Ploughshares blog Aimee Nezhukumatathil  writes about her favorite writing spot and asked all her friends to share theirs. My office isn’t nearly as cool as some she reveals, though it’s bit more functional than others. Mostly I need more shelves and should make more of an effort to pick up my socks. I’d post a picture but I can’t find any of my cameras.

I’m also jealous of Ann Townsend’s dock where she goes when the desk and computer aren’t working out

When I had a job that required me to take a 50 minute train ride twice a day I would often get poems started while commuting with my laptop. Now it’s mostly at night, here, at my desk.  So, where do you write?  At a desk? In the kitchen? Does it matter?

Update: the original post is more than a year old, and my writing and work situation has changed a bit. So that.

2 thoughts on “Where Do You Write?

  1. If I’m lucky enough to get the “good” computer, I write in our tiny little 12×8 guestroom/office on a desk that is actually an antique dressing table. If the laptop’s rightful owner, who shall remain nameless, has “dibsed” it, I write on a minuscule netbook dubbed “Tim,” usually at the dining room table. But mostly, I write in my head wherever I am, until I have the time to type it out in whatever room/computer is available.

  2. I write on the lam–holed up in a cafe, in the car, or sitting up in bed, having slunk away when no one was looking–though the locals catch on pretty fast–one must be cagey! In fine weather I trespass in one of the big, old adirondack chairs on the grand lawn at Lehigh University, just across the river. First draft is always longhand, usually on unlined paper. I revise at the computer in my “study” in the basement. All kinds of random crap lands in the study–whatever doesn’t fit elsewhere. It does have a view of the garden, though, and the many visiting birds, fellow fugitives.

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