Writing Couch

I have three desks – four if you count the card table on the porch.  But I usually end up on the couch.  It stays comfortable.  The clutter couch is something that lives in my living room – among minimalist décor.  It lives in huge contrast to the rest of my house. New writing books live here for a time.  Notes from an online workshop this morning will live alongside the pages I am editing for my sister’s first chapbook.  Pens, coffee cups, water tumblers, numerous reading glasses (their lenses smudged – always, always.)  Moisturizer, chapstick, current novel and the light to read it by. 

Clutter.  Wonderful, dreamlike collage of clutter.  It’s a nest for inspiration. 

My library, with overflowing shelves, holds a simple desk with ample room, a lamp, a cozy window, pens, etc.  But the large office chair is not inviting enough though the room screams “write here!” 

My second desk is more like my dream place – a back porch facing trees.  All windows and light. Seriously take a look at the picture on my first blog — a dream environment. I wrote the first blog entry there.  It was thrilling – so why not out there?  I have no earthly idea. Rabbit distractions?

The third desk faces the huge backyard picture window.  Within arms reach of my printer, it would be a lovely place to write.  The desk itself was built for my mother by her father and I had to work hard to retrieve it.  It’s small but beautiful; dark wood, envelope nooks.  The chair is perhaps too small and studious.  I have never written anything there but addresses for a bill or two.

Desk four is part of a pull-down Edwardian-style writing bureau that sits in the spare room.  An old roommate loved to use it, but its size is compact – no room for clutter.  I have never written there.  

I hate clutter.  So why is it that this couch situation works?  Perhaps the informality.  My whole body tingles – actually butterflies and lifts when I think about writing here – still.  So this is the place. 

I spent three days at a writer’s retreat and came away feeling good but not inspired.  This morning I spent less than two hours at the Michigan Writer’s workshop on publishing, and I feel inspired to write – to submit.  Even the types of stories I write seem more flexible and possible.  I often find inspiration at museums, but never if I intend to – only on accident.  My perverse sense of task only seems to trust surprises and accidents. Luckily at times, a week of daydreaming and steady obsession works as well.

Inspiration.  Unpredictable.