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 Continue reading