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A quiet corner anywhere but here

Writing is irritating sometimes like not being able to sleep  -- I can't get comfortable.

I started this evening at my desk in a tiny yellow chair, but I hate the way my desk is positioned against the wall in the middle of the bedroom. My right side, left side and backside are all exposed to whatever terror -- murderers, thieves, meth-head zombies, attention-starved cats, my children or my husband -- may come barreling through the door. 

I hate writing in here, but it's the only room I have any real control over besides the bathrooms -- and who wants to write in a room that people poop in?

I considered moving to the bed, but the outlet behind my' nightstand is occupied, and the mouse I'm using -- the back-up, corded piece of crap -- doesn't work well on soft surfaces. I have a cordless mouse, but the battery died more than a month ago, and I can't be bothered to look for the handful of AA batteries I got from the neighbor in exchange for some useless-size batteries I had laying around the house.


It's sort of irritating that I need a mouse at all, because I work on a laptop. But the butts of my palms brush the track pad while I'm typing, and -- based on the direction and duration of brushes -- my screen zooms in and out; my cursor jumps all over the page; I start and end sentences inside of sentences; and before I know it I've selected entire blocks of text and lost valuable prose to "is," "and," "or," "but," "the" or ". (period)."

Then there's the cat -- my getting in bed is apparently a signal that it's time to play. She inserts herself strategically between my face and the computer screen and prances all over the keyboard  and sticks her butt in my face while biting me to say "Come on bitch, I'm thinking that you should be loving me now."

And that's how I end up on the floor with my back against the dresser. It's horribly uncomfortable -- my feet turn three shades of purple; my butt goes numb, but it hurts simultaneously. On the up side, I've got an unobstructed view of the room so no one will sneak up behind me. I'm vulnerable to nothing except the physical discomfort of sitting for an extended period on the floor crouched over my keyboard like a paranoid lunatic.

The words come easier now -- I've found that comfortable uncomfortable place to work. My spirits lift, and everything looks brighter until I hear my husband's footsteps on the stairs, and I look at the clock in the bottom right corner of my computer screen -- 11:30 p.m. 

Writing is irritating sometimes like not being able to sleep -- you're out of time the moment you're settled. 


* Four Obstacles to Writing -- Writer's Block III by Tom Gauld

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