I can’t stand clutter. I find it distracting and the tiny gods know, most authors will take any excuse to not write. It’s an odd dichotomy. We live to write and dodge it at every turn. So if my desk is scattered, I’ll take the time to set it just so.
And then I’ll take my laptop and go sit outside to get work done.
I’ve been trying, for years, to create the Perfect Space. My favourite pens. Piles of notebooks and journals. A mug. Mugs are very important. Never mind that I don’t drink coffee. Snacks, those are important, too. And of course, just the right music. It never works. Or rather, it doesn’t work consistently. The muse will not be bribed.
I am slowly starting to accept that there is no such space. I’ve written micro-fiction tales on my phone, curled up on the couch. I’ve edited stories on a break at work.
There’s a comfort in clearing our spaces. There’s a ritual to it. I’ll still take the time to tidy my desk, even if I’m not working at it. Something about the task puts me in the right frame of mind. And that’s something I can carry with me. Along with a favourite pen and a notebook. And a mug.

 

 

 

 

 

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