Can I wake up here and write?

Not at home.

Well, yes, sometimes I write at home, but if it were my world to dictate, I wouldn’t.

At home, I’ll write in the comfort of my own bed (as I am right now). There’s some comfort in reclining on a fluffy pillow, bare toes wiggling beneath the covers, with easily accessible water and a power cord nearby.

Or I’ll write in the kitchen, in the little breakfast area where I can sit with a plate of food, with my back facing the wall so I can write in private and observe my family members as they sidle in and out of the kitchen for food to eat.

At school, I’ll write in between classes and during free periods like the weirdo I am, because when the urge to write hits you, you have to comply, which often means blogging while other people are watching TV shows. It also means other people glancing over curiously to see what I’m typing, which more than often involves them sending invisible but strong waves of judgment towards me, and less than often involves them striking a conversation about my writing.

If things were to always go my way you’d find me writing in some coffee shop by myself. Alone I shall always be, because in the presence of strangers, you are yourself a stranger. With no previous impression having been made, we as individuals feel less compelled to act a certain way, because there’s some mentality that we won’t ever see these people again, and we are the nameless person in the corner that gets up every half hour to use the bathroom, and stays all afternoon (true story). All of the chattery hubbub of the busy coffee shop fades into a quiet murmur once you slip your headphones on, and the music that dances around your eardrums reverberates against your brain, leaving you to tap your foot rhythmically. But the lyrics, they also dissolve, and the songs just keep playing, and you’re losing track of time while you’re writing in a coffee shop by yourself. But that’s the best way to write – lost, and you use the activity to mentally find yourself again.

But sometimes our environment is less than optimal, and we’ll find ourselves in the middle seat of an airplane with a firefly thought of inspiration buzzing around inside our head, and we just need to let it out. So you’ll pull out your laptop, vamp up iTunes, and play whatever you have stored in your library because in-flight Wifi is just too freaking expensive to buy for a two-hour flight. Despite being enervated by a taxing debate tournament (or something similar), you write and write and write until your fingers are cramped and your elbows bump constantly into your neighbor, and you refuse refreshments and cookies and ignore the urge to use the restroom, and answer enthusiastically when the person sitting next to you remarks on your writing, because lo and behold, these people aren’t as groupie as high schoolers are, and they aren’t afraid to acknowledge what those around them are doing.

• DP