That’s a pen and a notebook. I don’t write that way anymore. I sometimes jot down grocery lists or figure some math while sewing or knitting, but my computer takes the brunt of my thoughts.
I write while sitting at my dining room table, yay the only table as we don’t have an eat-in kitchen. It could be an eat-in kitchen, but the dining room has more light due to the big tree outside my large kitchen windows.
I write early in the morning, sometimes late at night. My space is quiet. I don’t have music playing or young children (Thank.God.) so I have peace. Only Maggie the Cat can be a distraction occasionally.
I always need my lucky kitty mug full of coffee in order to write. And my tea saucer which stands in as an ashtray since I threw all of mine out a hundred years ago when I first tried to stop smoking. I don’t even think about stopping now – I do have an E-cigarette which annoys the hell out of me as it needs recharging all the time. Who needs a cigarette and wants to wait two hours to get the battery charged? I need at least two of them, one to wash and one to wear ……….
The place isn’t as important to me as is the fount of ideas. Something I want to say about something. I tend toward introspection so a lot of my writing is about figuring out who I am, why I’m here, how to survive in a world that feels so inhospitable to a contemplating soul. I’m not into mass crowds so I would never write in a cafe, although in Bangor the crowd wouldn’t be huge. Unless the Canadians are down in their buses to buy out the local mall, then the crowds are huge. Given the population of Canada, you’d be amazed at how many of them make the 2 hour drive from the border. It might be less than that. I wonder how they cross back over. Do they bring extra empty suitcases and act like they’ve been here forever and are just taking the stuff back home? Don’t the Border Guards get it? Where do you put all that stuff? And who travels with quilt batting and fabric and craft supplies in their luggage? You should see the local JoAnn Fabrics when they’re here – you can’t get in the door and there’s nothing ruder than Canadians with a shopping cart plowing the fields of tat.
I digress. See I can write about anything – get me started and you’ll be here for hours wondering why this crazy old lady goes on so. Maybe it’s because I don’t have a lot of people to talk to, so I talk to you, Dear Reader. It’s been a year since my husband moved to the nursing home. I’ve sometimes felt I should have kept him at home longer but it was unmanageable. And now he’s to the point where he needs to be where he’s at. He can’t speak much so even when visiting I don’t get a lot of conversation – just me nattering on about what I’m doing.
So I write. When I have an idea, I write. Otherwise? I sit.