The Writing Space

In Thursday's class (at least, I think it was Thursday, although possibly it wasn't given that time and I are rarely on speaking terms) when we discussed the individual writing process, one of the things that was brought up was the actual writing space where the act of creative thought and composition takes place. For most of us, this is at a desk, either in our bedroom or a study, possibly out in the living room if we have a laptop. The point is; we're typically in a comfortable space. Music is something that comes up quite often; a closed door is usually a must.

All of these things are gestures meant to keep the outside world temporarily at bay while we commune with the world within. The idea of perfect solitude, of uninterrupted silence is as mythical as the Hemingway image of the lone, stoic, solitary writer. Most of us simply don't have the opportunity.

I would like to tell you about the space that I'm doing this writing in.

First of all, my computer is broken; has been for about a week and a half. This means that everything I've done that requires a computer (which is to say, almost everything!) has to be done in whatever time and access I can piece together. This has meant using library computers and borrowing from friends. Since (most) sane people will not allow even a trusted friend to simply walk out the door with their cherished laptop or desktop, it means I have been doing a lot of writing, and subsequently, a great deal of thinking in spaces that are not my room, my apartment, my favorite coffee shop, etc.

At the moment, I'm using my brother's laptop. He doesn't own a desk at the moment, which means it's been placed on this puny little night stand. Come to think of it, he doesn't have a chair either, so I'm half-sitting, half-kneeling on the edge of the bed. There's already a pain in my lower back from the awkward position. The strange clutter of the space is disconcerting, which I find interesting... my own workspace is extremely cluttered, but it's my clutter, every notebook or scrap of paper or empty drink is mine, and these relics contribute to the sense of identity I attribute to my space.

So, while I am extremely grateful that my brother is generous enough in sharing his computer with me, I cannot help but reflect on how this differences in atmosphere and comfort level make for a completely different introspective experience. Typically, when I reflect in these fashions, especially on a blog, I do so as an act of catharsis; I rarely go into it with any sort of plan. I simply open up the mental floodgates and let whatever's on my mind pour out, typically resorting to prompts only when I find that I really don't have anything on my mind. I typically work quickly, but it's a comfortable speed, an enthusiastic pace.

Now though, I find that I simply want to be done with what I am required to do. I already find myself thinking, "hmm, have I reached my requirement for the day?" which is not a line of thinking I often indulge in. Perhaps it is purely in my imagination, but were I to take the time to consider my tone and cadence of today's work to the previous day, I would imagine there would be a subtle shift, perhaps indicating my impatience, my desire to simply be done so that I can hit publish and stand up, stretch the kinks out of my back and retreat back to an apartment where the detritus around me is my own damn detritus.

I guess the point I'm trying to make is that, while we all talk and think about our writing space and how it relates to our writing process, I don't think we too often get an opportunity to see how space actually affects us in so concrete a fashion. Or maybe I've just been spoiled by years of having my own computer and my ability to tailor my space as I see fit. After all, I do seem to recall writing papers in my teenage years on the family desktop that was squeezed into the loud, hot, frequently aromatic chaos that was my family's kitchen.