I read somewhere that a view gives a person perspective.
That explains a lot, because my daily dose of barren trees, mud mounds, and the neighbors’ squatting dog inspires little more than stilted paragraphs of self-doubt.
Seems I better find a different means of perspective, because save a stint of reincarnation or time travel, an everyday glimpse of spectacular coastal France is not in my future.
The logical solution is to transform my immediate writing environment. Will that new-age Kung Fu or Fungus Shui or whatever the enlightened are doing these days spark my creativity?
Thinking back on the eleven years in my home, I wonder how I ended up parked in front of a cramped table in a cold basement, with only one window to brighten my outlook, its dimensions the size of Yoda’s fingernail. But Yoda unlike, its inspiration, serves me not.
Funny, because upon moving into the home, skin still elastic, bosom still ample (it’s called poetic license, and I’m invoking its use), I seem to recall claiming a high-ceilinged, fire-place enhanced room for my den. I also recall decorating the room to my liking, a muted collection of blacks, browns and taupes à la an African theme. This was to be my sanctuary, something the kind Mr. Rubin agreed I deserved. After all, I had recently bore his two children, not much but a trigger-happy bladder left in their place. Plus, I’ve lived in some crappy joints in the past (there’s a future blog post in many of them; that and roving schools of silverfish). This was my payback.
And it was. I scratched out my novel in that room at the beginning of the millennium. But sometime over the past decade, as my writing time dwindled and my other responsibilities quadrupled, a paper-strewn, beer-scented man cave replaced my peaceful African providence.
Hey! Now wait just a damn minute!
Fine. I retreated to the basement—no desk in our bedroom and too noisy in the kitchen. And really, why risk getting a fat hiney in the process? What about my kids’ bedrooms? Well, if you need to ask, then you don’t have children. In fact, I believe the class bunny, forced upon us one holiday weekend, still hops in one of those hell holes. Or decomposes. Poor Floppy Ears. (Relax, PETA, I’m kidding.)
Unfortunately, it didn’t take long before a family computer took root in my dank piece of basement heaven. The beer smells and clutter and male bodily noises soon followed. And yet there I remain. Cramped, cold, and uninspired.
View and perspective, my ass.
On your behalf, I will make the remainder of this nail-biter brief.
I am a woman. My family heard me roar. My husband’s desk in the never-intended man cave now resides in the guest room. As do the beer bottles. And the pile of papers. And the soon-to-be carpet stains.
And the best part? He doesn’t care. He’s one of those rare, wonderful, enviable birds who are happy just to be. Sort through work issues upstairs? No problem. Scratch and burp in the guest room? Be happy to. Hey, this is the home of an introvert. We don’t have many guests.
So now, with the room aired out, African artifacts realigned, blinds for five big windows (count them—five!) functioning and ready to rise, will this new environment give me the needed perspective?
We’ll see. My desk arrives shortly.
What about you? Does your environment affect how you write (or draw, or work, or stuff classroom bunnies, or whatever it is you do)?
Note: This post was inspired by Riatarded, a witty blogger who is encouraging other bloggers to participate in “The Uninspired Chronicles”, which involves writing a post about how you “overcome the creative funk”. If you’d like to post on a similar theme, check out the link.