Saturday, May 26, 2012
A Table With a View
Every night I pull out my laptop and set it up for my writing session early the next morning. Even though I sometimes wallow in self-pity and mumble ‘I’m sure other writers don’t have to do this,’ I’m also sure many other writers don’t have the freedom to write at all, so I keep my self-pitying wallow to a minimum. So I don’t have a real desk – at least I can write when, what, and how I want to.
Then every morning, because I have to do silly things like go to my day job, I pack away the laptop, transforming the table back to what it is intended for; breakfast, dinner and homework. It’s the same thing every night and every morning, but I do it religiously; my writing routine is sacred.
But I have come to love writing at the kitchen table. There are no desktop distractions like pens to organize or paperclips to straighten. My only distraction is the view from my kitchen window. Sure I don’t have an opulent million dollar view of beaches, forests or manicured estate grounds, but it’s mine.
When I am lost in thought for the next word, sentence, thought or idea to surface, I watch the seasons change; longer days, shorter nights, and then six months later, shorter days, longer nights.
I write at the same time every day, around 5 a.m. I prefer the dark mornings of winter when I am shrouded in pitch-black, pre-sunrise peace. The screen of my laptop and the streetlight outside are my only light. The glow from the streetlight serves as my weather guide illuminating the rain or snow. In better weather, spiders spin their webs hoping for moths.
The barbeque waits for summer, and before too long my mornings are brighter with the sun rising earlier. The hummingbird feeder sways in the breeze, and chickadees flit through the shrubs surrounding our yard. Leaves sprout in the spring, only to fall again in autumn. Our little garden that was stagnant dirt in the winter comes to life with shoots emerging from their winter hibernation.
Summer rolls around, and the kitchen window is flung open. Even in the early mornings, sweat from the summer heat hinders my concentration, my hot house unable to cool down overnight from the day before. The chirping birds are nice, but those hot, too-bright mornings are not my favourite.
And then it all starts again, and I am back to writing in the dark, my focus directed back to the screen.
Day after day, month after month, I am up before the rest of the world - no matter the weather or season – and I write.
I am thankful for a laptop with which to write, a kitchen table to sit at, a roof over my head, freedom to write, and my own million dollar view.
It beats a bathroom/office, any day.