One of the first questions I always ask when I interview an author is, "Do you have any writing rituals or unbreakable habits? Staring into the fridge or wandering aimlessly, maybe?"
I ask this question because it's one of those things that confounds me as a writer. Whether I'm working on a term paper for my graduate coursework (no more, by the way, I'm almost done), writing a freelance article or drafting a review for Estella's Revenge, I have habits. Unbreakable habits. Annoying, horrible habits.
First and foremost, I'm a wanderer. That is, I'll sit down to write, I'll think, I'll put a few words to paper, and I'll get up and wander away. I'll walk aimlessly, stare into the fridge, look out the door, and come back to my computer. From there I'll commit another paragraph or so to paper, get up, and wander some more. It's exhausting, really. A little like interval training. Walk for a bit, sprint like a madwoman, slow back down to a trudge and then run like hell until all tired out again.
I got quite the reputation when I was working on my Master's thesis proposal as I would draft a page or so, wander into the Communication Skills Center to visit the tutors, and eventually sigh heavily, make a snide remark, and return to my computer. They--and I--all thought it was nutty, but I suppose it worked.
Beyond the unbreakable habits, I'm also interested in the locations where people write. I'm quite the finicky number when it comes to writing location. I can't write just anywhere. I can't deal with writing more than a sentence or two longhand, and I can't have too many distractions. While in my younger days (think teens), I could read or write in the middle of a hurricane. Give me radio! Give me T.V.! Give me cows flying by the window and ants in my pants! I could write through it all.
Now, give me quiet! Give me peace! Give me all noise-making appliances in the "off" position!
Call it age, call it adult onset ADD, call it what you like. I don't do noise and distraction. The wandering is the distraction. I can control that.
These days I call the kitchen table my office, and it works really well. I'm positioned in a large open space. I can see the living room, I can peek down the hall. I have two sunny windows to my left and a refrigerator mere feet away to stare into. It's heaven. What happens when the office is ready? Nicely filled with a desk, bookshelves and eight miles of books? Hell if I know. I just hope it works as well as this old kitchen table. If not, I'm probably screwed.
We're finicky things, we writers. Or maybe it's just me. I hear there are many much-more-talented-than-I scribblers who can write with dogs chewing on their feet, children clutching their pant legs and herds of antelope galloping through their space. Not me. Oh no. I'm much more high maintenance than that. Give me a quiet kitchen and a GE ice box, and I'm your girl.
I ask this question because it's one of those things that confounds me as a writer. Whether I'm working on a term paper for my graduate coursework (no more, by the way, I'm almost done), writing a freelance article or drafting a review for Estella's Revenge, I have habits. Unbreakable habits. Annoying, horrible habits.
First and foremost, I'm a wanderer. That is, I'll sit down to write, I'll think, I'll put a few words to paper, and I'll get up and wander away. I'll walk aimlessly, stare into the fridge, look out the door, and come back to my computer. From there I'll commit another paragraph or so to paper, get up, and wander some more. It's exhausting, really. A little like interval training. Walk for a bit, sprint like a madwoman, slow back down to a trudge and then run like hell until all tired out again.
I got quite the reputation when I was working on my Master's thesis proposal as I would draft a page or so, wander into the Communication Skills Center to visit the tutors, and eventually sigh heavily, make a snide remark, and return to my computer. They--and I--all thought it was nutty, but I suppose it worked.
Beyond the unbreakable habits, I'm also interested in the locations where people write. I'm quite the finicky number when it comes to writing location. I can't write just anywhere. I can't deal with writing more than a sentence or two longhand, and I can't have too many distractions. While in my younger days (think teens), I could read or write in the middle of a hurricane. Give me radio! Give me T.V.! Give me cows flying by the window and ants in my pants! I could write through it all.
Now, give me quiet! Give me peace! Give me all noise-making appliances in the "off" position!
Call it age, call it adult onset ADD, call it what you like. I don't do noise and distraction. The wandering is the distraction. I can control that.
These days I call the kitchen table my office, and it works really well. I'm positioned in a large open space. I can see the living room, I can peek down the hall. I have two sunny windows to my left and a refrigerator mere feet away to stare into. It's heaven. What happens when the office is ready? Nicely filled with a desk, bookshelves and eight miles of books? Hell if I know. I just hope it works as well as this old kitchen table. If not, I'm probably screwed.
We're finicky things, we writers. Or maybe it's just me. I hear there are many much-more-talented-than-I scribblers who can write with dogs chewing on their feet, children clutching their pant legs and herds of antelope galloping through their space. Not me. Oh no. I'm much more high maintenance than that. Give me a quiet kitchen and a GE ice box, and I'm your girl.
*Please note, the charming photograph at the top is most definitely not my writing space. I could never writing sitting in a comfy leather chair. Too pleasant. I need a hard wooden chair that puts my butt to sleep. Keeps me alert and on my toes. But it is a nice picture, yes?
