We had an “at home” day yesterday.
I had some hideous home furnishings project I had to finish, and Nick had some work to do “on the computer”.
Ever the dutiful wife I politely asked him what he was doing, and ever the impolite husband he retorted.
“You wouldn’t understand”
He was bang on the money of course, so we politely ignored each other for several hours, breaking only for Nick to bark his food and drink requirements at me.
Inevitably, we both became locked into our respective tasks, and at one point I looked over at him.
This is what I saw.
He had his fingers in his ears, his laptop on, well, his lap, his eyes were tightly shut, and most worryingly, he was rocking back and forwards.
I felt impelled to intervene and asked him what he was doing.
“Thinking” came the curt response.
We left it at that, as otherwise, we may have been obliged to involve medical practitioners and a straight jacket.
It made me consider my needs for a conducive environment for writing – to unleash my writer’s muse if you like.
I am guessing that many writers lock themselves away and treasure the quiet that is uninterrupted time.
Having spent the best part of twenty years with my life partner away for the working week, I have spent more than my fair share of my time in the quiet that is isolation – Rural France while very beautiful can sometimes be the loneliest place on Earth.
So, contrary to the mainstream, I find that a place with a bit of noise is what does it for me.
Today I have repaired to a local coffee shop, with people , background music (which bizarrely is Christmas themed ) and the comforting hiss of the coffee machine threatening to maim the staff.
I have a window seat, which looks out on the market square, so I can gaze out when the fancy takes me.
Not every writer’s bag I’m sure, but it suits me just fine.