A Desk of One's Own

One of the blessings of a laptop is that I can move all over the house with my work of crap, er, art. I’ve written at the dining room table, on the floor in the family room, and on my bed. I’ve written lounging and sitting up straight. There was even a stretch of time in the fall, after having to drive my kid around in the car to take a nap (he had a stuffy nose and was very sad), that I sat in the car with my laptop, writing in my driveway. I didn’t want to move him because he needed his sleep and I needed some face time with my WIP.

Back before I started devoting vast quantities of time to my novel, I had visions of myself writing at coffee shops, vanilla-mochachino-expresso-latte-partskim-partwhole with extra chocolate sauce and extra caramel sauce, whipped cream and sprinkles, in hand, my serious librarian glasses on, paperwork strewn about, looking all the world like a serious writer.

A far cry from the vision of me sitting in the front seat of my Jetta, the seat back as far as I could get it to go without actually sitting in the backseat, the laptop screen pressed to the steering wheel, trying not to type too heavily so I didn’t wake the booger-covered, cranky baby passed out cold in his car seat, huh?

The reality has definitely proven to be way less glamorous than I’d expected. Nowhere in my writing fantasies was I holding a baby on one hip, the laptop propped on the kitchen counter while I typed with one hand, trying to get down the paragraph that sounded SO perfect in my head before it was lost to eternity and replaced by verses of “The Wheels on the Bus.”

This weekend, I was thinking of setting up a desk to keep all my writing stuff organized (ha). I initially disregarded this idea because I figured it wouldn’t work out for me unless there was some sort of super amazing toy attached that would distract my super attention dysfunctional child long enough for me to sit at said desk and produce any actual writing.

But, after further thought, I realized that I wasn’t bitter about not having a desk or a “spot” to write. I doubt, even if I had one, that I would use it. I like to flit about, writing where the mood strikes me in the house. I think that’s why I like the idea of writing at a coffee shop. It’s a fresh, creative place.

What about you? Under what conditions do you write? Do you like silence or chaos? Anyone have a desk and not use it? Anyone not have a desk and wish they had one? And finally, what conditions do you think would make you a better writer?