I am writing this from the second floor of the local public library after having scoured the shelves downstairs for books. I retreated to this quieter area in the hopes of finding some inspiration for my next post. And I did. Seated behind the magazine racks at a long wooden table, I realize I’ve been here before. I’ve sat in this very same seat for hours of homework, solitude and writing. It wasn’t intentional, this constant returning, yet I believe my mind feels at home here, which is rare these days.
There are many fantastical writing spots I dream of. A tree house, in the middle of a dewy forest, filled with large comfortable pillows. A drafty castle on the moors somewhere in northern Ireland. A window seat in a tiny seaport cottage in Maine or Massachusetts. An aluminum desk set in a crowded cubicle in the middle of a busy newspaper office, papers and a large monitored computer with the good sounding keyboard making it impossible to see the surface of said aluminum desk.
But I have never written in any of those places.
The weird thing about your writing spot (or spots) is that you don’t choose them, they choose you. Remember the whole “The wand chooses the wizard, Harry”? It’s kinda like that.
A Few Places My Writing Flows:
1. At the table behind the magazines on the second floor of the library.
2. At my standerd issue desk at the back of my English class when I really need to pay attention.
3. During US History when I’m almost asleep and my pencil is broken.
4. At 2:00 am when I need to hit the gym really early in the morning.
5. Halfway through my cheese and salami sandwich two minutes before the bell rings.
My inspiration strikes at the most inconvinient of times and much writing is lost th at way. But I’m okay with that because there are days like today, behind the magazines on the second floor of the library, where I do capture a few words and pin them down.