I’m in one of the Team Rooms at my university, despite the fact that it takes me an hour to get here and I have neither classes nor exams. Why?
Because I live with my parents and we get along. It makes it impossible to get anything done.
Well, impossible is an exaggeration. But it is damn difficult. I’ve never been a take-a-seat-in-a-coffee-shop-and-work-on-my-screenplay kind of writer. I’m a huddle-in-the-corner-furthest-from-the-door-trying-to-avoid-making-eye-contact-with-anyone-in-case-they-take-it-as-an-invitation-to-talk-to-me-while-agonizing-over-the-tonal-differences-in-various-synonyms kind of writer.
Shut up, that’s totally a thing.
My mom is retired, and she’s a lovely person who enjoys watching sitcoms and fine courtroom drama. I’m big on the former and can handle the latter. But she likes to talk about what she’s watching. And that’s a problem for me, writing-wise. Because, as anyone who has ever tried to write anything when they weren’t feeling especially inspired will attest, it can take hours to get into a state where everything is flowing, and it only takes seconds to completely derail it.
My parents’ house has a very open floor plan. The “office” is a mezzanine overlooking the living room. It’s really nice, because when you’re upstairs and you want to bounce an idea off of someone, you barely even have to raise your voice for them to hear you.
It really sucks, because when you’re upstairs and someone wants to bounce an idea off you, they barely even have to raise their voice for you to hear them.
You see the dilemma?
So, rather than tell my mom that I need to hermit it up so that I can get some writing done, I told her school wasn’t over yet and traveled an hour into the city to work by myself in one of the offices on my campus.
I don’t think this is sustainable. I am combing the classifieds for a garret to work in. Preferably a drafty one, where I can contract consumption that will lead to a Romantic era death that will then lead my writing to be read by morose people for generations to come.
Not really. But I do need to find a new metaphorical island. Or to just grow a set of lady-balls (ovaries?) and put my foot down about the whole lonely garret business. Probably that one.
But for now, I am getting a lot done.
How are you at protecting your writing time/space? Or are you a chatty coffee shop writer?